I think he’s gone for the night, he was never one to stay up late. I remember trying to get him on aim back during the old tanchat days. ><
But good song. ^_~
Maybe you can take his place and trip the light fantastic together. ^.-
Sure Pretear, I’ll dance with Shak. Pick us out a good song. 3:-E
Our Time in The Manor (part 2)
At seven o’clock my mother had dinner ready. Even though we didn’t get quite as much done as she had hoped, she was still impressed by our hard work and gave us our promised reward. It turned out to be one of her homemade pumpkin pies, which she had prepared before leaving the old apartment. The extended length of our journey, combined with our task of unpacking, had conspired to make my brother and I extremely hungry. The lasagna and pumpkin pie we had the night, though reheated, were the best meal I had ever remembered.
A few hours later, after unpacking a few more boxes, I went to bed with a still full belly. I fell asleep with Mr Snuggles in my arms and a smile on my face.
The next few days and weeks at the house flew by as we settled into our new lives and our new surroundings. It took nearly the whole first week to unpack everything, and our mother still spent weeks afterwards rearranging everything to her liking. During that time, my brother and I set out exploring the remainder of the house and it’s grounds. The house sat back several 100 feet from the road and was surrounded by large trees. So it wasn’t until we started exploring the property, that we realized the immensity of it. Our first time exploring the grounds, when we realized it’s true size, was when my brother coined the name “The Manor”. He said it reminded him of an old mansion he had read about in a book once.
The land surrounding the house including several dozen acres, and was apparently part of an old family farm. A small pond lay a few 100 feet from the back porch and was occasionally home to families of geese or ducks. My mother forbid us from playing near it, for fear we would fall in and drown. My brother and I didn’t see what the big deal was, as we had both taken classes and were quite the skilled swimmers. But still, we did our best to stay clear of the water, at least when mother was around.
Several dozen yards past the pond is where the apple orchards started. Row after row of mangled old trees lined the fields beyond the house. They stretched for what seemed like miles, before they ended in the deep woods on the edge of our land. My brother and I would grow to love those orchards and would spend hours playing in them. We would run around for entire afternoons, pretending that we were a king and queen and the orchards our kingdom. One tree in particular was easy for me to climb, and we would use it as our castle and issue down proclimations to our subjects beore battling dragons and ogres.
We would leave the house shortly after lunch each day and head to the orchards. We would spend five or six hours there, before returning shortly before dinner. Our mother and step father would always inquire as to what we were doing, to which I would reply with something along the lines of “We were battling ogres to save the kingdom.” To which, they would just laugh.
Those were the good times, those first few weeks there. The place seemed almost magical, the way it pulled us all in with it’s charm. During the day, the home was warm and gentle. Even it’s cold, dark, hard wood floors seemed to embrace us.
But at night, the house became something entirely different. It was often hard to sleep between the cold as the old house would creak and groan. The sounds of wood joints and boards expanding and contracting was loud and would echo throughout the entire building. Occasionally there would be a loud bang coming from the downstairs or attic, as if something was falling or breaking. My dad or brother would often go to explore the strange noises, but would always come back empty handed. “It’s just the noises of an old house,” step father would say. “It’s just getting use to people living here again. It will quiet down eventually.”
That excuse however, didn’t explain the cold that crept over the house every evening. The air would grow terribly cold, and on some nights you could almost see your breath, despite the warm humid air outside. I was often forced to leave the small side windows in my room open to let in some warmth, or hope the cold would find it’s way out. Our step father tried to explain this away by saying there was a problem with the air conditioner, and he would have it fixed once his new job started and he was able to put some money away. I doubted the validity of this excuse, as I heard our parents arguing once, and distinctly remember our mother saying that there was no air conditioning in the house.
As the summer ended, it seemed out step father had been correct about the noises. As the house grew accustomed to us, the creaks, groans, and bangs eventually subsided. Soon we were able to sleep at night with ease, as even the cold air and drafts ceased. The same warmth that permeated the days there, also begin filling our nights.
Before long, everyone was in love with the house, especially Mother. She would spend endless hours rearranging the furniture, so it was just right. She wanted everything to accent the house’s native architecture perfectly. She moved the living room set four times alone before she was finally satisfied. When she wasn’t moving furniture, pictures, or paintings, Mother was busy cleaning. She gave every peice of wood, marble and glass in that house a thorough scrubbing. She made sure every inch was sparkling.
Nice Cody!! 
Thank you! I’m editing and putting the final touches on part 3. But I’m gonna make you wait, just for the added suspense! 
Thanks a lot buddy!!
As for me - why wait?
Cast will be posted shortly! Check the TAN Cast thread in a bit!
I really, really want to see Kakurenbu. I need to hunt down the DVD someday!
I hope you do. I miss the TV airings. It is a great show. Did you like your character in the cast? LOL I thought it was so you!
Love the end of this one! :laugh:
LOL! NIce video! I can’t blame her. I hate clowns too. Well, pretty much anyone with too much face make up. I get a little freaked out by drag queens too…lol
Very funny!! Yeah, some go a little overboard. :lol:
Some more Halloween superstitions -
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If a black cat meows on your porch or near a window, a death will soon occur in the family.
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Peel an apple from top to bottom. The person with the longest unbroken peel would be assured the longest life. If you threw the apple peel over your shoulder, the initial it forms upon landing is the initial of your future mate.
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Don’t point at a grave or your finger will rot off.
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When bobbing for apples, it is believed that the first person to bite an apple would be the first to marry.
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If you go to a crossroads at Halloween and listen to the wind, you will learn all the most important things that will befall you during the next twelve months.
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A person born on Halloween can see and talk to spirits.
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To prevent ghosts coming into the house at Halloween, bury animal bones or a picture of an animal near the doorway.
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In Britain, people believed that the Devil was a nut-gatherer. At Halloween, nuts were used as magic charms.
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Many people used to believe that owls swooped down to eat the souls of the dying. If they heard an owl hooting, they would become frightened. A common remedy was thought to be turning your pockets inside out and you would be safe.
On a more somber note -
In memory of the Salem witch trials -
Girl on the Train
By David Duncan
From Strange but True
22 Amazing Stories
Awakening from his nap, the American painter Girard Hale saw a girl seated opposite him. When he had dozed off, he had been alone in the compartment of the speeding French train.
Hale was more pleased than surprised by his companion. She was lovely, and yet her face was fixed in brooding sadness. The artist was charmed.
He struck up a conversation. To his delight, the girl quickly turned to the subject of painting. Although they had never met, she knew quite a bit about his work.
Suddenly she asked an odd question. Could he paint from memory the portrait of a person he had seen only once?
“For example, could you paint me from memory?” she asked, sitting down beside him.
“Yes,” replied Hale with conviction. “But I’d rather paint you from life.”
The train slowed to a halt. The girl got off.
“We shall meet once more,” she said in parting.
Hale’s stop was ten miles further on. He had been working in Paris when he had been commissioned to do a portrait of a French woman at her home on the Loire River. It was 1928.
Upon reaching his destination, Hale was graciously received. He changes his clothes and made his way downstairs for dinner. In the hall he encountered the girl with whom he’d spoken on the train.
She greeted him with a brilliant smile. “I promised we should meet once more,” she said.
Hale marveled at how quickly she had arrived at the house. “Tell me how you did it,” he said, laughing. “I should like to travel the same way.”
For a fleeting moment, the smile slipped from the girl’s lips. “That would be impossible,” she said softly and hurried away.
During dinner with his host and his hostess – the woman whose portrait he had been commissioned to paint – Hale offhandedly remarked about the girl.
His host stiffened. “I have no idea whom you met,” he said forcefully. “There is no young woman in this house. My wife and I are not expecting one.”
Seeing his host’s peculiar reaction, Hale switched the talk to other things. But the topic was reopened at the coffee table. Hale was asked to make a sketch of the girl’s face, and was supplied with paper and pencil.
Hale settled himself and began to draw. The pencil seemed to guide his hand as it produced an exact likeness of the girl.
He was putting the finishing touches to the sketch when his hostess fainted and slipped from her chair to the floor.
After she had been revived, her husband stared gravely at the drawing.
“It is our daughter whom you met on the train and in the hall,” he said somberly to Hale. “The sketch you made from memory can be of no one else.”
He picked up the paper and carefully tore it in into pieces.
“She died many years ago.”
I have arisen from my chamber of slumber to see that I missed out on a great deal last night.
No one thought of date for me? Guess I should introduce her…
Here’s a little something I found this morning that I thought some of you might be interested in… The sequel to ‘Bram Stoker’s Dracula’, written by his great-grandnephew, Dacre Stoker.
That’s great! I never knew there was a sequel. Can’t wait to read it! Thanks Slow!
And I apologize Red. I will have a special dance for you two later. 