 This episode is dedicated to the men and women of our Armed Forces and First Responders. Whether you are currently serving or have served in the past, you are appreciated. It is because of your courage and sacrifice that we enjoy the freedoms and liberties we hold dear. And I for one, appreciate every single one of you for protecting what many of us take for granted. So thank you. Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome, Weirdos. I'm Darren Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, the strange and bizarre, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. Coming up in this episode... At the Michigan Paragon in 2022, I met author Greg Lawson and was really impressed with his body of work. I asked if he wouldn't mind if I narrated a couple of stories of his and he generously agreed. So tonight, I share two stories from his book Diaries of a Paranormalist Encounters with Death. If you want to read the entire anthology, I've placed a link to it in the show notes. We'll begin with a story called The White Lady of Consale and then I'll follow that up with The Spirits. If you're new here, welcome to the show. While you're listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com for a merchandise, my newsletter, Twitter contests to connect with me on social media. Plus, you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression or dark thoughts. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights and come with me into the Weird Darkness. Near the River Bandon and the county of Cork is the town of Consale, Ireland. Reaching out toward Consale Harbor is a beautiful spit of land now holding the remains of a 17th century fort known as Charles Fort. Built by the English, it was a formidable, star-shaped structure designed to ensure the English maintained rule over their Irish counterparts. Now, as they did then, the Irish did not care to be ruled by Englishmen, so much that clans actually allied with the Spanish to keep the Britons out. This of course didn't go so well for either the Irish or the Spanish and ultimately English soldiers were garrisoned at Charles Fort to maintain control in the region. My visit to Charles Fort was not long, however. Maybe because I'm a former military man or have a reverence for battlegrounds, my experience there impacted me. While the fort itself has a lengthy and formidable past, housing political prisoners and being the location of several battles, it now serves as a reminder of what Britain once was, but maybe more of what love once was. You see, there was a commander at Charles Fort, a Colonel Warinder. Appointed as the fort's commanding officer and governor and under threat of imminent attack, Warinder was a staunch tactician and severe disciplinarian. He personally ensured all his officers and men adhered to exacting protocol both on and off duty. But he was also the father to a beautiful young girl whom he had raised right there in Kinsale. Her name was Wilful, a popular name at the time, and she had fallen in love with one of the English officers garrisoned there, a Sir Trevor Ashhurst. Tall and handsome, Ashhurst was a distinguished soldier and a son of a fine family. After the insistence of a formal courtship, the two young lovers were betrothed to be married, and all was well. Both Trevor and Wilful were never happier. As you can imagine, an affair such as this, the Colonel's daughter marrying an English officer fueled excitement within the fort and the town of Kinsale. It was the grandest event of the year, possibly ever at Charles Fort. Pomp and Circumstance were the order of the day, and in the custom of both the English and the Irish, there were endless formalities as the dignitaries and guests arrived at the sprawling fortification. Soldiers relieved of their duties mingled with the residents, mainly the young women as the people of Kinsale flooded through the open gates, gleefully taking in their surroundings. Both a military band and a local group of minstrels entertained the crowds throughout the afternoon, and there were never-ending toasts to the beautiful bride and her groom. Soon the attendees were seated and a local priest performed the ceremony. With no conflicts or condemnations, the ritual was concluded with the priest presenting to the congregation Mr. and Mrs. Trevor Asherst. With the crowd on their feet, Trevor and Wilful had to fight their way back down the aisle through the throng of these laughing and back-slapping well-wishers, both English and Irish alike. After a brief adjournment, the bride and her groom joined the revelers in the main hall where they feasted and drank, accepting tributes and toasts with open arms and full glasses. They danced and hugged and made promises to old friends and new. They looked into each other's eyes while dancing or went across the room and they saw their future. They saw their happiness. Everyone did. That afternoon would be forever in their minds because they lived a lifetime in those few hours. With evening approaching, Trevor and Wilful took their leave of the congregation. They said their goodbyes to the nobility that had graced the affair. They hugged and kissed their family and friends. They accepted compliments from these servants and soldiers. Then, arm in arm, they strolled along the protective walls of Charles Forte toward the farthest lookout position, with their final intention in mind, the bridal suite. As they reached the point, they stood staring south across the bay. On the far side, the last of the sun's rays reflected of the green rolling hills, shimmered off the blue silver-tipped waves and shone gold on the limestone ramparts and guard turrets looming far above the rocky shore of this cold and formidable sea. There, alone and along the outside wall, Wilful saw a spray of beautiful blue flowers clinging to life. Trevor saw them too, although his vision was somewhat impaired from the day's festivities. It was at that moment he realized Wilful had no bouquet. His bride, his beautiful Irish flower, had no bouquet. Immediately, he exclaimed he would retrieve it for her. Stepping over a cannon emplacement he reached from the wall, but slipped, almost falling onto the rocks many feet below. Wilful, laughing and grabbing onto the back of his coat, held at bay her young gentleman as he leaned across the battlements. A century standing guard at his turret, saw Trevor's attempt and instantly offered his assistance to the newlyweds. He was aware that Trevor was too intoxicated to make a perilous climb down to the flowers and offered to do it for him, if Trevor would only stand his watch while he was at the task. The couple gladly accepted. Trevor took the man's musket and watchcoat and Wilful observed intently as the soldier ran down toward the front gates to locate a length of rope to descend to the flowers. Several minutes went by, then half an hour. The couple couldn't understand why the man had not returned and it was impossible for Trevor to inquire since he could not leave his post without being properly relieved. As the sun sank and darkness cloaked the fort, Trevor kissed his wife and sent her on to the bridal suite. Meanwhile, he stood his watch, waiting for the soldier to return or at the very least for someone to relieve him. While he could have very easily called out to another soldier standing watch for liberation, he did not wish to get the young soldier in trouble for not returning. Even though he was a commissioned officer, he did not dare call out in order to avoid any confrontations with the sergeant to the guard. There was only one real problem with this idea. It was that this was Trevor's wedding day, a wedding day filled with not only festivities but with too much wine as well. And as the wine grappled within him, Trevor decided to sit down in the sentry turret. Soon, after leaning on his benefactor's firearm, he was asleep. On the other side of the fort, clinching on his pistol belt, Colonel Warander prepared for his nightly perimeter sentry inspection. Closing his logbook and securing the door to his office, he began walking the fortress' perimeter expecting the customary sentry challenge of who goes there from each post in turret. All was well, until he approached the turret overlooking the point. Here, he did not receive the challenge. The Colonel stepped closer and clicked his boot heels on the cobblestones as a warning to the lookout. But still, no response. Losing his patience, the Colonel stepped to the narrow turret entry. There, shimmering moonlight glinted off a pristine and well-oiled musket barrel. The glow illuminated the slumped form of a man's sleep on watch. At that time, Colonel Warander did what any commanding officer would have done, catching a sentry asleep at his post. He withdrew his revolver and shot the man then and there through the heart. Mortally struck, the man's body simply rolled forward and onto the ground, dead, with the musket clattering at his side. The Colonel yelled for the sergeant of the guard who quickly responded with a picket of men bearing torches. After hearing the gunfire, others joined them as well. One of the soldiers was ordered to take the place of the dead man and the others were instructed to take the body to the courtyard for display in accordance with the protocol for summary executions. It was then, as they rolled him over, that Colonel Warander saw Trevor's face. And it was then that behind him he heard his daughter's voice asking what had happened. Where was Trevor? He did not move. He could not face his daughter. Often in such confusion, time seems to slow. Things that normally go unnoticed are clearly apparent. Sight is acute. Sounds are crystal clear. It was at this time the world was witness to this young girl's heart as it was crushed from her body, driving out a wail of terror and pain unrepeatable. A solitary shadow moved between the men, the outline of her shawl silhouetted by many torchlights. It was willful. She briefly hesitated, then grasped her husband's lifeless form. In a moment she was at the wall, blood on her hands and bosom. The men heard the sea breeze catch a flutter in her thin bridle gown as she cleared the wall and with that final step joined her groom in death. Colonel Warander, the governor of Charles Fort, county of Cork, town of Kinsale, returned to his office. He sat at his desk and made his last journal entry. I have been relieved. It was there with his revolver. He shot himself. When I visited Charles Fort, it was this tragic tale that particularly struck me. The story's skeleton provides the structure for the legend of the White Lady of Kinsale. You'll hear differing versions of the story depending on whom you ask, and the variety is just as diverse as the versions of the haunting you will be told. There are dozens of White Lady legends throughout the world. The White Lady in the lake of Durant Eastman Park, Rochester, New York, wandering about looking for the body of her daughter. The White Lady of Porchester Castle, seen retracing her steps, trying to retrieve her fallen child. And the White Lady of the Berliner Schloss or Berlin Palace, possibly Countess Kunigunda of Orlemunda, who was tormented by the fact that she had murdered her young children in order to marry Albrecht of Nuremberg. These and many more led people across the world to report such White Lady experiences. As a lifelong military man and law enforcement official, I provided the above rendition of the story that made the most sense to me, based on the common theme of the many accounts, military protocol, and the particulars of the location. In some forms of the story, the flowers were reported as white. I however saw only blue spring squill growing on the battlements during my visit, and they are the most common flowers to grow in dry, rocky coastal areas of Ireland. In some versions, the Colonel is the one that issued the challenge to the Sentry. However, this is not proper military protocol. The Sentry should be aware enough to detect an approaching person and issue the challenge first. In another account, Wilful awakens during the night only to find that Trevor had been shot dead and had her father had thrown himself over the wall. In her distress, she then casts herself over the wall. However, I do not believe Wilful would have fallen asleep before Trevor returned to their bridal suite, but that could just be the romantic bias in me talking. Also, the cowardly action of the Colonel killing himself before Wilful takes her own life does not sit well with the description of this career officer and strict disciplinarian. In my personal opinion. In one account written in The Worldwide Magazine, the Colonel's surname was reported as Brown, and that he shot his son, not his new son-in-law. In the book True Irish Ghost Stories by St. John Seymour and Harry Nelligen, they tell of possibly the first sighting of the white lady in 1815 by a garrison officer. Described as a woman in her wedding dress, the vision disappeared when the officer tried to get a closer look. And still, even the explanations for the hauntings vary in type and location. In some hauntings, the entity assumed to be Wilful is a wraith intent on punishing any officers for the death of her groom. In others, she is a caring ghost in her flowing wedding dress, protecting the soldiers from falling asleep on duty. But in any of these stories, three facts remain true. One, Trevor is shot and killed. Two, Wilful commits suicide. And three, Colonel Warander commits suicide. These are the constants. I believe it was the turret at the southmost point that was the location of this heartbreak. I watched as a solitary gull rode the sea breeze in front of the empty battlement and swooped now and again in front of it as if to confirm the post was abandoned. I stood there as long as I could, trying to make sense of it all, before I was forced to move on. That seems to be the real theme for any human endeavor, to create a sense of logic and clarity of purpose. For in this life, it is proper and correct that we should lose everything. That is what happens. In all of this, it is my belief that these three souls pass on wisdom for all who care to listen. The themes of that wisdom seem to suggest you should not be hasty in making your decisions, be soundly responsible for your actions you take, and make every moment in your life count. Every moment. Up next, it is another story from Greg Lawson's anthology of true creepy tales with a story called The Spirits, when Weird Darkness Returns. You shut yourself in, the lights are out, and you are listening to Weird Darkness. But suddenly, you get that feeling you are not alone. You don't know what might be under the bed, or in the closet, or in the attic, or in the room with you. You don't dare try to sleep now, you are too scared to. If you doze off, you might be vulnerable to the creatures who haunt your dreams. That is just one more reason to have Weird Dark Roast Coffee in the cupboard, because you just never know when you might need it. Weird Dark Roast Coffee contains deep notes of cocoa, caramel, and a touch of sinister sweetness. Each bag is fresh roasted to order by Evansville Coffee, and delivery is free for your first order. Just use the promo code Weird, you can find a link to it at WeirdDarkness.com. Grab a bag before something else grabs you from the dark. Under the cummer of darkness, we had slipped the USS Nimitz aircraft carrier up the East Lama Channel between George Island and up Lake Chow Island, then rounded Green Island to finally drop anchor near the mouth of Victoria Harbor, Hong Kong. When morning came, the occupants of that city were surprised with an aircraft carrier just offshore and 6,000 sailors coming to town with a month's paycheck in each wallet, assuming they had not spent it on junk food or lost it gambling on the way. This was my second shore excursion on its British territory and one of my favorite destinations, friendly people, inexpensive beer, and no shortage of places to go and things to do. Something I learned early on while traveling in Asian countries, people do not like talking about the paranormal. It seems to me many believe the more you talk about it, the more likely you will fall victim to it. The most information I received from the local people I was able to speak with was in Hong Kong, probably because of the extended British occupation and the necessity of the people of Hong Kong to learn English. In my normal fashion, with a little research in the Nimitz Library, yep, it has a library, I already planned my destination and arranged my shore liberty for the entire four days in port. Another sailor had charged me $70 for him to cover the day of my duty watch and it was worth it. In my readings on Chinese myths and legends, there were two specifically that intrigued me. One was the Shugai. The Shugai, or Souls of the Drowned, are literally the spirits of people who have drowned and are waiting for living humans to come near the place they drowned so the Shugai can drown them as well. Since at that point in my life I had experienced two near-drowning incidents, the Shugai caught my attention. A legend such as this would have wide acceptance on Lake Travis where I currently patrol and conduct underwater recoveries. Many of the drownings at Lake Travis occur at the same places where previous drownings have taken place, leading to the belief there is something more at work here. The other was the hungry ghosts. These spirits, because of their selfish and cruel behavior in life, are doomed to waste away in the underworld. And like most other cultures, some Chinese have the belief that departed souls, whether in the form of ghosts or wraiths, return from the dead to haunt a certain location, complete some unfinished task, or terrorize the living. Some Chinese believe demons and other spiritual entities that have never been human and that influence or exercise power over people. Then there are the mythical monsters that serve both good and evil purposes. As you can see, westerners have quite a bit in common with easterners. I made my way off the gangplank and into the throng of the mass exodus of the ship. Soon I found myself stepping off a ferry and onto a commercial pier in Victoria City. After a brief check by the customs authority and navigating my way through the sailors, police and prostitutes, I was at a booth along Belcher Bay, buying a jetfoil ferry ticket to my destination goal, Lantau Island. The jetfoil ticket was a little more expensive, but I had never ridden on one, so I decided to go for it. It was completely worth it. The boat was fast and rose above the choppy waves, giving an incredibly smooth ride. Lantau Island was actually my second choice. My first choice was a former British military officer's barracks named the Murray House, located in central Hong Kong, a business district in the heart of the city. I was incredibly excited about this very historic and haunted location. It was reported that during World War II, the Japanese had occupied Murray House for almost four years. During this occupation, it was reported that the Japanese used the location as a detention center and reportedly tortured and murdered many prisoners there. Some prisoners were reported to have committed suicide rather than face the Japanese torture techniques. In the 20 years after the war, countless sightings, strange experiences and unexplainable sounds were reported by the government workers assigned to the officers within the structure. So much that in the early 1960s, government workers requested and received approval for the Murray House to be cleansed through the means of exorcism. On May 19, 1963, 90 Buddhist monks gathered at the Murray House for 10 hours and conducted the exorcism ceremony. During the ritual, a list of names of those known to have died through the atrocities committed there were written onto tablets and before midnight taken outside and burned. But the more I researched, the more I learned. An additional exorcism was conducted in 1974 that was actually televised. Then, unfortunately, in 1982, the Murray House was dismantled block by block and stored. It wasn't until 2017 that I resurrected my fascination with the Murray House and learned that in 2001, the Chinese government rebuilt the Murray House in Stanley, a city south of Victoria. It now serves as a shopping destination. As my second choice, Lantau Island is the home to three things I was interested in. Houlin Buddhist Monastery, the Shaolin Wushu Martial Arts Center and Fanlau Fort, an outpost to combat piracy in the early 1700s. As we approached the island, I was surprised to see how mountainous it was. While there were a lot of signs of human occupation, houses, businesses and roads, the entire island seemed to be covered in lush vegetation. Once off the pier, I grabbed the bus to the monastery. Other than a British couple, I was the only Westerner on the bus and no one would sit next to me. This made the trip a little disturbing and sort of comfortable all at the same time. But the drive was gorgeous, with beautiful flowers and strange birds everywhere. Once at the monastery, I signed in and took the general tour. I was disappointed to find out the monastery was founded only in the early 1900s. However, the architecture was interesting and I was able to see the sculptures of the three Buddhas past, present and future. The part most interesting was that the monastery had recently started construction of what they would be able to boast as the largest Buddha in the world. A complete contradiction of Buddhist dogma, but great for tourism. After the tour, it was early afternoon and I got a bus heading for Taiou Fishing Village and the Shaolin Wushu Cultural Center. While the landscape was amazing, the bus ride was horrific. My experience was bloated with bad roads, smelly occupants and a bit car, bus sick. Dusk was upon us as we arrived and I grabbed the first motel I came to and went straight to sleep. The following morning, I hired a taxi and arrived at the Shaolin Center before 7am. I wanted to make sure I arrived early and did not have to rush. Sadly, when I went to check in, I realized the school started at 5am. I should have known. For the next three days, five hours each day, I endured an introduction to Shaolin Kung Fu. Being a martial artist and having a black belt in Taekwondo, I thought it would be relatively easy. I was wrong. I knew nothing compared to these masters who not only studied the art, but also lived the philosophy. I was assigned to a monk who was not only a teacher, but a tour guide as well. Over the next three days, 5am to 11am, we became friends. However, I never had more bruises on my body in my entire life. We began with animal forms on the first day, the tiger, dragon and crane and continued them along with the intense power and stretching exercises. To spiritual Chinese people, most animals are symbolic of something in their life. Each can mean something important. The tiger symbolizes power and energy, the dragon is strength and good luck, and the crane longevity in peace. The odd thing was that while the physical demands of Kung Fu are challenging, it was the meditation that I found most difficult. The search for the spirit. Forcing my mind to be clear of all thought, devoid of any internal dialogue yet at the same time, being aware of every sense and everything around me was impossible for me to attain in such a short time. The deep level of understanding and lucidity of the mind is impossible for some to accomplish in a lifetime. The sentiment experience gave me a sense of clarity that I feel is a key for true paranormal investigators. It gave me a way to reach out without relying on gadgetry and truly listen and feel the world around me. I didn't really know what to expect from the center, however, I was not disappointed. That afternoon I left the center to explore on my own and research the area for any weirdness. While there were many people to speak with, they were mainly interested in U.S. currency, not sharing credible information about local legends or hauntings. The one subject that did reoccur with the people I met was that of the hungry ghosts. Everyone basically expressed these the spirits of people who did something wrong or behaved badly when they were living. I also got the impression that many Chinese did not like the word ghost, but more often referred to the departed as their ancestors. This led up to them telling me about the hungry ghost festival every August. Essentially, when I gathered from what I was told, this festival is a Chinese Halloween for adults. A very simplistic view, I know, but probably pretty accurate. One old woman operating a small shop was very helpful. She lived through the Japanese occupation and had fled from village to village to stay away from the soldiers who I believe she said eight people. Seriously. She spoke very broken English, but that seemed to be what she said. However, she did like Americans very much. I spent several hours talking with her. She asked what I was doing on the island and asked about my plans. I told her I had visited the monastery, the Shaolin Center, and tomorrow I had plans to see Fanlau Fort. Immediately, she stopped and asked why. I explained to her that I visit battlefields and forts for a hobby. Once again, she asked me why. I tried to explain that many of the men that influenced my life served in some branch of the military and it was kind of my way to keep those warriors' memories alive. She said I should not go to the fort. I asked why. I tried to get her to be specific. However, all I could get from her was that it was not a good place and that nothing good ever happened there. She told me that pirates lived there and many died there. This supported a little of what I had read about the fort. There was about a 10-year period where a group of pirates took over and occupied the fort, but it was retaken thereafter. She said that many years ago she had gone by the fort and she knew it was a bad place. I told her I needed to go and that I was sure everything would be alright. With that said, in the next 15 minutes the old woman equipped me with everything I needed for my visit to Fanlau Fort, a cloth package of cooked rice, a lighter, a lotus candle, three plastic bowls, three kinds of beans, and a stack of paper play money. It only cost me $17, probably a day's wage for her. I gave her a $20 bill which she conveniently stowed away and I never saw the $3 in change. We said our goodbyes and I continued my village exploration until dark. The following morning I was at the Shaolin Center on time. I sufficiently exerted myself attempting to perform in the way my body was never intended, then I finally found myself in the back of a clean, semi-new taxi heading to Fanlau Fort. By map it was only a few miles away, but by road it took us what seemed to be an hour to travel, maybe 10 miles. When we arrived there was no one in the vicinity, either because it was the off season for tourists or because it was in the middle of the week. I didn't know. As we neared the fort there was a large construction area along the roadway that appeared to be new apartments of some kind. They appeared finished, however, they were not occupied and looked to be falling into disrepair. The taxi driver pulled off the shoulder of the road and stopped. He said, Fanlau. I asked for the visitor center. He pointed to a trail off into the brush. A wooden sign with Chinese markings stood to one side. He pointed to the trail, Fanlau. I was not about to get robbed or murdered on this island. I stared at him in the rearview mirror. He opened his door and got out. He motioned for me to do the same. I grabbed my backpack and got out. He motioned for me to follow him down the trail and I did. It wound back and forth through the undergrowth until we came over a small rise. There the trail straightened and led down to the square walled fort with the remnants of several other attached spaces. What remained of the fort were nothing more than a series of walls and some foundation. But as described, it overlooked the southern point of Lantau Island at a height of about 400 feet above the sea. At this point I tried to tell the taxi driver I'd be spending the rest of the day here and that he could go. Once he understood, he made me understand that there would be no way for me to get back because there are no other taxis in the area. We did some humorous though highly unintelligible negotiations and it seemed we agreed on him staying the rest of the day for $40. After we agreed he went back to the taxi and I assumed took a nap. I on the other hand explored the ruins. It was obvious that the site had been looted by the locals over the past hundred years. Any roofing material, wood and much of the rocks used to construct the walls were gone. The government had obviously come in and cut away the surrounding vegetation but done little else. Within the walls there was not much to see so I did two widening circles of the perimeter of the fort. Anyone with the understanding of warfare could see why this location was selected for the fort. With suppressing the threat of piracy, its number one priority, this fort was positioned in such a way as to see the approach of any ship from miles. However, due to the fort's placement on the hill and being relatively small, it would have been of little use if several ships decided to lay siege. There were several trails leading away from the fort that seemed to all weave themselves around and back up to the roadway. I sat down and surveyed the site. It was picturesque, luscious green vegetation, a calm blue sea and bird songs all around me. I decided to walk contours on both sides of the crumbling fort. I was searching for anything unusual and of course, where there was human occupation, there would be graves somewhere. After close to two hours of walking back and forth, I found two depressions that appeared to be the approximate size for a human body but nothing else, other than a little blue, almost black magpie that followed and watched me. There were no human markings, signs or anything else of immediate interest. I wished I had brought a metal detector with me. I was disappointed with the lack of physical evidence of some battle or death here. On the surface, the fort just seemed to be nothing more than the fragments of an old building. My intuition was telling me more. I have been to many famous haunted places, places that have a legitimate claim to the paranormal and I felt nothing. Van Lau Fort was not one of these places. It was no woman in white story, no details of a heinous murder or horrendous torture, no tombstone marking a mass grave, but I felt something. Something was there at Van Lau Fort. I headed back to the interior of the fort and sat on the southernmost wall. I decided to practice what I was learning at the Shaolin Center and dropped my backpack. I sat down and tried to clear my mind. The little bird landed on the rocks near me. I had some sort of crackers in my backpack, so I dug them out and broke off a piece and then threw it near the bird. He was not impressed. He jumped to another rock. I relaxed and I tried to push all of my responsibilities away. I closed my eyes and tried to get the Nimitz out of my mind. Home out of my mind. Traffic, berries, aircraft, taxis, money, time, all out of my mind. I tried to listen to the land. I tried to listen to my gut. I tried to hear with my feelings to reach out to someone, anyone that may be there. Maybe an hour went by when I got an overwhelming feeling that I was being watched. I opened my eyes and the bird was now on the ground hopping around. Everything else was the same. Everyone has had the feeling of being watched. Many people have talked with me about it, the feeling that someone or something is staring at you. I had been paranoid before thinking that someone could be watching me, but this feeling was different. This feeling was not something voluntary, not something pleasant. Like the old woman had said, nothing good ever happened here. I got to my feet. It was difficult because part of my legs and feet had fallen asleep. I may have fallen asleep during my meditation as well. The sun was still just above the horizon but was falling fast. I decided to head back, but then I remembered the hungry ghosts. I opened my backpack and took out my offering, a cloth package of cooked rice, a lotus candle, a lighter, three plastic bowls, three kinds of beans and a stack of paper play money. The bird jumped up on the wall and watched. I sat the bag of rice on a flat stone nearest the southwest corner of the fort's wall, placed the three bowls beside it along with the play money. I heard footsteps behind me and looked back. It was my taxi driver walking across the interior yard down to me. He looked perplexed as he watched what I was doing. I smiled at him and continued. I opened the first package of beans and started to pour them into one of the bowls. The driver made a sound, and I saw he was shaking his head. He squatted down next to me. I don't know what he was thinking as to why I was performing this ritual, whether I had a loved one recently die or was trying to appease the dead. In any case, he motioned that he would show me and that he pointed up to the bird and smiled. He said a word I assumed was the name of the kind of bird and then handed me back the cloth of rice and the three bowls. He pointed at the lighter and then the candle. I let the candle. He motioned that I used both hands and placed the rice on one side of the candle. Then, with both hands, placed a bowl down. He showed me how to pour the beans into my hand from the bag. Then, using both hands, pour them into the bowl. Then again with the other beans. Then again with the last beans, lentils I think. The candle was now surrounded north, south, east and west with edible offerings. Finally, he motioned for the money. I repeated their placement as before with both hands. He knelt down next to me and waited for me to get into that same position. I did. He leaned forward and closed his eyes. So did I. I don't know what he was thinking or what I was supposed to think, but while we knelt there, the fear went away. Paranoia went away. It was like a bubble formed around us. I felt compassion for those sailors that approached these shores, for those soldiers assigned as the watchers of the fort and for the dead that may have spent their last moments on this same soil, staring and seeing this same sky for the last time as everything faded, as sound faded. After many minutes my taxi driver rose to his feet and I joined him. We walked silently to the car and the bird followed. I last saw him sitting on a branch as we drove away. I fell asleep on the way back to the motel. Years later, after doing some research on Chinese folklore, I found out that blue or green birds the King Yao were the special messengers of the Queen Mother. My little bird may have simply liked tourists, he may have been protecting his nests, or he may have followed me for other reasons. Now that 25 years separates me from whom I was then, I wish I would have been more attentive to that one and only thing at Fanlao Fort that seemed to want my attention. The problem with being a paranormalist is that there is never enough time. The tiny signs or fleeting experiences are in the actions and situations you are not necessarily looking for or expect. Most times they are impossible to document, impossible to qualify, often times impossible to explain. What I do know is that we do not have to travel around the world to find these signs or have these experiences. The spirit is everywhere. The dead are everywhere. They are in your town. All you have to do is look. Thanks for listening. If you like the show, please share it with someone you know who loves the paranormal or strange stories, true crime, monsters or unsolved mysteries like you do. And please leave a rating and review of the show in the podcast app you listen from. Doing so helps the show to get noticed. You can also email me anytime with your questions or comments to the website at WeirdDarkness.com. That's also where you can find all of my social media, listen to free audiobooks I've narrated, shop the Weird Darkness store, sign up for the email newsletter to win monthly prizes, find other podcasts that I host, and find the Hope in the Darkness page if you or someone you know is struggling with depression or dark thoughts. Plus, if you have a true paranormal or creepy tale to tell, you can click on Tell Your Story or call the dark line toll-free at 1-877-277-5944. All stories in Weird Darkness are purported to be true unless stated otherwise, and you can find source links or links to the authors in the show notes. The White Lady of Consale and The Spirits were both written by Greg Lawson from his book Diaries of a Paranormalist Encounters with Death which I've placed a link to in the show notes. Weird Darkness is a production and trademark of Marlar House Productions, copyright Weird Darkness 2022. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Matthew 6 verse 25 Therefore, I tell you do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food and the body more important than clothes? And a final thought from Brad Sugars. Words can inspire, thoughts can provoke, but only action truly brings you closer to your dreams. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness.