Book interview for Sun Journal

I had the pleasure of being interviewed by Kathryn Skelton for the Lewiston Sun Journal the other week, which was included in their recent article about spooky Maine reads. Check out the full article online for more book recommendations and info! http://www.sunjournal.com/bplus/story/916288

Weird, Wicked Weird: Hauntingly good Maine reads, in time for fall
By Kathryn Skelton, Staff Writer
Published Oct 03, 2010

Sure, it’s not as famous as the legend of the bloody hook swinging from a door handle, but just try beating the story about the Maine witch who forever cursed Manhattan clam chowder.

(Fair warning: It’s a killer of men and libidos.)

Try beating the story about Catherine, Down East's vindictive, hitchhiking ghost.

Or, the one about the southern Maine attorney who kept a murder victim's head ... and ... maybe ... lost it.

All true — or true-ish — according to the authors of recent books on the bizarre, curious and ridiculously haunted.

Bone up for Halloween on a half-dozen nonfiction works based, at least in part, in Maine, and read the authors' takes on the unusual, in their own words.

The Turner Beast and other tales

“Strange Maine” by Michelle Souliere
Published: May 2010, The History Press ($17.99)

Some places don’t need a ghost. Phantom lights. Chilling sounds.

Battery Steele, the old World War II-era bunker on Peaks Island, Souliere says, is one such place.

“The main hallways form sort of an ‘I’ shape: There are two short entrance hallways on either end and then a long hallway that stretches between those,” she said. “You don’t think you’re going to need a flashlight, but as you get to the center of the very long part of the ‘I’, it’s actually incredibly dark and kind of terrifying. The light at either end of the tunnel becomes very appealing and you start to move a little more quickly.”

It’s so good, so naturally creepy, it doesn’t have any ancillary legends and doesn’t need them, Souliere said. “Battery Steele itself is a presence.”

And, unusual enough to fit into “Strange Maine.” The material for her book, arranged in chapters by themes like things in the woods and spooky spots, comes partly from pieces researched for her “Strange Maine Gazette” and ideas in newspaper clips, books and word of mouth.

Some are straight stories of the weird (the Specter Moose, an allegedly giant moose roaming the woods, and Turner’s mystery beast — less mystery, more dog), some of unusual places (Houlton's Hubcap Heaven, Brian Read’s Recycle Zoo in Washington) and some are spots the reader can visit, like Fort Knox.

“There’s just something about all the tunnels and stairways that wind through the fort that really sparks my imagination,” Souliere said. “There are stories of hauntings there, but in and of itself, it has a spooky feel to it.”

(Spookiness egged along by the annual “Fright at the Fort” Halloween benefit.)

“I think those of us who live in the state don’t necessarily visit (places like Battery Steele, Fort Knox) as much as tourists from outside the state,” she said. “I think we miss out on some of the fun we could be having here at home.”

Souliere, who lives in Portland, is working on a Maine Bigfoot book with cryptozoologist Loren Coleman for the next year. After that, it's a “Strange Maine” followup, which will include the story of the Phantom House of Northport, something that didn’t fit in the first edition.

Interview via the Sun Journal

I don't think I ever got a chance to post this on the blog last year, and thought some of you might have fun reading it, especially those of you who are recent additions to the blog subscribers. Definitely one of the lighter and more entertaining interviews I've done, thanks to the adept skills of Mark LaFlamme.

Face Time: Michelle Souliere, Chronicler of all things strange in Maine
By Mark LaFlamme
Published Jun 28, 2009 12:00 am

Freaks. Weirdos. Unmapped roads.... So begins the intro to the increasingly popular blog by the name Strange Maine. It was launched in 2005 by Michelle Souliere and for the past two years was named the very best by the Portland Phoenix. If it's strange and happening here, you can bet it will be covered at Strange Maine, not to be confused with Strange Maine the store or Strange Maine the book. Here, Michelle answers some questions about how she got to be the local authority on strange.

What is Strange Maine?
Strange Maine is a lot of things. It is made up of people, places and things that exist here in the state of Maine and perhaps nowhere else in the world. It is the feeling you get, which in some of us causes an almost giddy delight, when you stumble upon a pocket of this strangeness. It matters not whether the discovery is of a cache of weird items at someone's yard sale, a roadside museum that the world seems to have passed by but which has continued growing regardless, or a story that someone tells you about a weird house from their hometown that freaked them out as a kid. It's out there, and when you find it, it's darn good.

How did you come to create this site?
Honestly, I have a hard time remembering. I think I had spent a few months doing research on anomalous phenomenon, and perhaps stuff like whether downtown Portland is riddled with tunnel passageways, and other Maine- and New England-related weirdness. It baffled me that there was no single destination on the Web that collected this stuff to any real effect, especially as it related to Maine. So in a moment of insanity, I thought to myself, "I should do something about this!" and pressed that big orange button on Blogger.com that says "Create A Blog," thereby sealing my fate. It wasn't until later that I stumbled upon the New England Anomaly Web site, and realized I had neighbors as crazy as I am.

Why is Maine so freakin' strange?
I'm still trying to hash that one out. I can say "There's just something about it..." until the cows come home, but while it's a pleasingly ephemeral statement, it does nothing to clear up the puzzle. The real question is, do we actually want the riddle to be solved? My instinct says we don't. Part of the spell that Maine weaves is the fact that despite the best efforts of L.L. Beaners and tourist bureaus over the last century-plus to nail down and brand Maine to be sold like some rugged designer perfume to people from away, the best way to appreciate Maine is to find a spot here where you can just sit by yourself for a moment and absorb it.

I've tried to trace the element of strangeness to the wildness of Maine, its isolation, its sparse population and the tendency it has to attract and retain both the oddest and most wonderful of people (sometimes they are one and the same). It just doesn't add up. There has to be some weird synergistic effect, some alchemy at work, because the sum is greater than its tangible parts. Whatever it is, a crucial component in the recipe is the land itself, in all its Maine varieties — and, quite possibly, a lot of it has to do with being a borderland: a place on the border of wild and urban, on the border of the great Atlantic ocean, a place on the border of the U.S.-Canada line.

If you adopted the Turner Beast and gave him a name, what would it be?
For pure silliness, it would have to be Fred. If I wanted to freak people out, though, he'd be officially named "He Who Walks Behind the Trees" or "Fred the Terrible."

What do you have coming up?
The very tardy Spring '09 issue of the Strange Maine Gazette will be in print by July, which is pretty exciting for me, as I never thought I'd get it done after breaking my wrist in May. I'll be bringing copies of it to Zombie Kickball IV, here on Portland's Eastern Prom on Sunday June 28th, and then to the Paranormal and Psychic Faire at Fort Knox on the weekend of July 4th and 5th. I'm thrilled to be setting up at the Faire, after having heard about it for the last few years. I've never been to the historic Fort Knox site, which is supposed to be gorgeous, as well as very haunted, and it's an area of Maine I haven't explored yet, which is always a big bonus. I'm also working with a great group of local artists on a Strange Maine themed art show that I'll be curating at Sanctuary here in Portland, which will be on exhibit for the month of October. Never a dull moment!

[Source: http://www.sunjournal.com/node/20518]

The Phantoms of Lewiston

Over at the Lewiston Sun Journal, intrepid reporter Mark LaFlamme spent some time this past December musing on the whereabouts of the well-known people of the Lewiston streets. Portland has many of its own, definitely room for another article there!

Wither the phantoms?
By Mark LaFlamme
Wednesday, December 17, 2008 05:00 am

Nameless friends, where art thou? For so many years, you were ubiquitous and you fascinated me, but now you have vanished like migratory birds flown off to some unknown land.
[...]
I haven't seen the Flag Man in months, maybe a year. I wonder where he has gone and whether he is properly equipped with the American flag that so comforts him.

I don't see the Twirling Lady so much, either. Since 1994, I watched her floating along the sidewalks, moving with a concept of time that is wholly apart from what the rest of us know. Every 20 feet or so, she would pause and consider the ground beneath her. She would spin in a lazy circle there on the sidewalk, her quiet charm to ward away whatever evil she had spotted.

I know her name is Nancy and I know she likes grilled cheese sandwiches. But I don't know where she goes for long stretches anymore than I know where butterflies go when it rains. She is there one day and gone the next, another phantom with a back story I might never hear.
[...]
Read the full article here: [Source]

Letterboxing = fun!

That irrepressibly rascally journalist, Mark LaFlamme, is at it again. This time, he leads us over hill and dale throughout Maine to find weird things buried in odd places. Typical!

I'll let him speak for himself, since he does it so well. Good fun!

Mystery, nature, art and treasure intersect in letterboxing
Mark LaFlamme , Staff writer
Sunday, May 10, 2009 05:00 am

I'll be honest with you. I didn't expect to find a treasure at the base of the tree in the forests of Westbrook. Why would I? The landscape showed little of man's influence. There were trees of all varieties and sizes. There was a babbling stream that sounded like it suffered hiccups. There was a blanket of last year's leaves on the ground, all soggy and dead.

When I scooped away a mound of wet pine needles and stuck my hand into the hole, I expected one of two things: a reptile would bite me or a tree spirit would grab my fingers and pull me down into some Tolkien world where I'd be forced to slave for Keebler elves.

Instead, I found a plastic box. This was the heretofore fabled Millbrook Trout, a collection of items left in this secret place a year ago and visited by dozens since.

There is something chilling about holding knowledge about a hidden treasure out in the wilderness. The box itself becomes iconic. Inside are things a stranger planted after stealing into the forest on a different date and under different circumstances. Clawing into the contents of the box is like treasure hunting and time travel. It feels mystical, almost forbidden.

But it's not forbidden, it's letterboxing and it's catching on. A mix of scavenger hunting, navigation and art, some say it derives from the ancient custom of leaving a rock on a cairn after reaching the summit of a mountain. The more recent version began in England in 1854 when a Dartmoor National Park guide left a bottle by Cranmere Pool with his calling card in it and an invitation to those who found the bottle to add theirs.

Now thousands of people are venturing into woods or back alleys, clawing beneath rocks, crossing streams, braving hornets, sweeping craftily away from the eyes of non-letterboxers and following sometimes vague clues in a quest to get a stamp in their letterboxing diary and to leave a stamp of their own.

Around the country, it is estimated that 25,000 letterboxes - each with its own theme - have been placed. As of this writing, 1,778 of those are in Maine and I went searching for a dozen or so of them.

In Saco, I had no luck at all. In the hunt for the Bogart in Lilac, I was told through online clues to drive a road named after an American president, stop before a "blind drive" sign, hike a trail and either walk or wade across a stream. Only there was no "blind drive" sign on any of the presidential streets including Washington, Lincoln and Jefferson, and so I never laid eyes or hands upon the letterbox stashed in July 2006.

In Yarmouth, confidence was restored. It was night when I went searching for the Royal River Letterbox, which had remained hidden in plain view for six years. I carried a flashlight in one hand, a baseball bat in the other (in case of zombies or letterbox pirates) and followed the instructions carefully. There. On the right. Five brick circles marking the end of my journey. A short distance away, under a rock that looked like any other, another box with another treasure inside.

You will notice that I'm vague in my descriptions of these journeys. Among the code of conduct of letterboxing is the obvious rule that the presence of the boxes themselves should not be revealed or hinted at to those not involved in the sport. Leave no trace of your own presence. This is a society of such secrecy and nomenclature, it is worthy of a novel by Dan Brown.

In Lewiston, I went in search of a five-part letterbox series in the theme of "A Nightmare Before Christmas." Part of the clue was written like this: "There is a place where some play, some walk, and some eat. As you pass the wooden welcome sign on the right, take a breath of fresh air, enjoy the sounds of the various birds and crickets chirping. Now, we are ready to begin our journey..."

Enjoy the sounds of nature my ass. I overshot the first clue, stumbled on the second in a hollow log by pure fluke, had to backtrack through the forest. A group of kids playing basketball eyed me as though I was a madman clawing at trees and roots. One of the letterboxes had been scavenged from its box, ruined by elements, tossed across the forest floor. I could not read the contents of the box or apply my stamp (mine is a palm tree until I can get one fashioned in the shape of a bat) to the book therein.

My wife, whom I bring along as a cheap GPS unit, wanted to continue on. I wanted to quit. And here it was revealed that in the language of letterboxing, I am something of a slackboxer, described thusly: "The practice of accompanying one or more letterboxers on a letterbox quest but not participating in the reading or deciphering of the clues, identifying landmarks, reading trail maps or otherwise participating in the letterboxing hunt."

Yet, there is a soft addictive quality about the hunt for things left by strangers, and I came back. In Auburn, I went on two searches, both around Lake Auburn. In one, six paces from the corner of a rock wall led me to the bounty I sought. At another, eight paces toward Lake Auburn led me only to a stack of rocks and some animal bones, which in itself is a treasure.

Those of a rational mind will tell you that the joy in letterboxing is obvious. Get exercise by hiking trails and climbing over fallen tree limbs. Commune with nature. See places you would not normally see and sharpen your mental acumen.

Me, I have a motorcycle, which means I don't like hiking. And communing with nature means flying over my handlebars into the puckerbrush.

No, I'm all about the weird connection to strangers through trinkets left in secret places. The thrill for me is in the cloak and the dagger, of being one of only a handful that's in the know. Here is the nine-to-fiver's chance to play Robert Langdon or Indiana Jones, dodging low-hanging branches and bad clues instead of spears. You can search across the world or in your own backyard.

Letterboxes are everywhere. And I can find nine out of 12 of them.

[Source]

To explore similar pursuits in Maine, go to http://www.geocachingmaine.org/

What the heck is geocaching? Click here.
What the heck is letterboxing? Click here.

The sincerest form of flattery, I guess

A front-page story in today's Lewiston Sun Journal on "Weird Maine inventions" seems oddly familiar, right down to the illustrations used and examples chosen. There are some differences, though. I wrote that "no fewer than six patents for cow-tail holders were issued between 1890 and 1936." She was able to find "No fewer than seven cow-tail holders" patented between 1889 to 1936. That's why I'll never be a professional journalist.

100 Years Ago in the Devil's Half-Acre

The Lewiston Sun Journal has a daily feature which looks back 100 years ago, 50 years ago, and 25 years ago. Today's was pretty interesting, and gave a name to a part of Lewiston that I hadn't heard of before.

In a Lewiston special to the Boston Herald on the local rum situation, it is stated that letters have been sent from Androscoggin County to Gov. Cobb asking him to send the Sturgis deputies here. The special concluded with this paragraph: "It is asserted that the liquor deputies pass the well-known places on the principal streets to make searches for liquor in the shops of the French quarter of this city, and the dives and kitchen bar-rooms in Hines alley and on 'The Devil's Half-Acre.'"
[Source]

Little did I know, Lewiston wasn't alone in claiming this moniker. According to Wikipedia, Bangor was know as the Devil's Half Acre too: "Sailors and loggers gave the city a different and more widespread reputation - their stamping grounds were known as the 'Devil's Half Acre.'" [Source] Their information comes from "Maine League of Historical Societies and Museums (1970)" in Doris A. Isaacson: Maine: A Guide 'Down East'. Rockland, Me: Courier-Gazette, Inc., pages 163-172. The Bangor Daily News published an article about the events of 1906 that led to a wider recognition of this nickname:

'Crime wave' entertained Bangor
By Wayne Reilly
Monday, July 24, 2006 - Bangor Daily News

During the long, hot summer of 1906, Bangor became the crime center of the nation, perhaps of the world, at least in the fevered imaginations of reporters and editors at the Bangor Daily Commercial, the city's afternoon newspaper. "MANY CROOKS HERE ... Bangor is Pretty Nearly as Badly Off as Chicago Now ... HOBOES ARE INSOLENT," announced a multidecker headline on July 17. Hoboes, yeggmen, pickpockets, muggers, con artists, robbers and a host of other bad guys had been gathering in the Queen City since sometime in the spring.
...
The reporter advised, "One only has to take a walk through the section of the city known as the 'Devil's Half-Acre,' through the railroad yards and up along the river front from Washington Street to Foley shore below the Eastern Maine General hospital to satisfy himself of the number of these tough characters in the city."

Yet after setting the stage so well, the reporter admitted there had not been a single murder or bank robbery or something else really serious. The author seemed mostly concerned with the hoboes, that mysterious infestation of rootless men that bloomed like algae along the riverfront on the borders of the city's most exclusive neighborhoods each summer. Housewives had been scared out of their wits by villainous-looking individuals knocking at their kitchen doors looking for handouts.

And just the other night two young men "well known in society" had to employ a horse whip both on the horses and on intruding thugs to prevent being held up as they traveled by carriage with their wives just below the Tin Bridge in Hampden.
...
One of the benefits of living in a city with two newspapers is that there are often two sides to a controversial story. The Bangor Daily News was always ready to correct the Commercial's tendency to overdramatize the facts, and vice versa.
...
The city was safe. People "may visit the 'Devil's Half-Acre' or even the water front without being sandbagged or robbed or shot or stabbed or poisoned." The Commercial was confusing begging and drunkenness with real crimes, scoffed the BDN.
...
One of the most interesting crime stories of the summer, however, was more appropriate to a Norman Rockwell painting than to the lurid pulp magazines that documented heinous acts in Chicago. "THOSE HORRID BOYS ... They Go Swimming Without Bathing Trunks Again ... POLICE ARE SHOCKED," declared a playful headline on July 20 in the Commercial.
...
Bangor has recorded some ghastly crimes in its history, but not that summer. And soon the hoboes would be disappearing down the tracks like the autumn leaves.
[Please click here for full article: Source]

Monsters Make Friends

Loren Coleman noticed an interesting Strange Maine moment on the Lewiston Sun Journal's homepage. Click here to read the full post on Coleman's Cryptomundo website.

The Sun Journal has posted a list (figured logically this time by the number of viewings on their webpage) of their
Top Ten Stories of 2006...
#1 Mysterious beast
#2 Flying object spooks man
#3 Why are sex words our worst swearwords?
#4 Nude teens test Vt. limits
#5 "Like horns of a devil"
#6 Infant left inside car; 2 charged
#7 'Sorry... my baby needs diapers'
#8 City man slain; son charged
#9 Verdict: It's a dog
#10 Car crash kills teen

Please notice, as Coleman points out on his site, that three of the articles listed are about the Mystery Beast of Turner, Maine, and two of the others are also by reporter Mark LaFlamme, who Chris Dunham posted about here just last week. Seems like LaFlamme is just a Strange Maine sort of guy!

Since we're having a LaFlamme lovefest, please let me add that I am very happy to now own my own copy of his book, "The Pink Room," which I picked up at Borders in South Portland (an autographed copy, no less). Portland's public library didn't have a copy back when I first heard about it last year, so to read it I had to get a copy via interlibrary loan. I liked it so much I'm adding it to my permanent library! Creepy and well-written, with dialogue that works naturally with the characters. I hate to compare LaFlamme with Stephen King, because no doubt everyone and their brother does, both of them being from Maine. However, it must be said: Like Stephen King, Mark LaFlamme is a devoted student of the human condition. It shows in his writing.

Honest. Gripping. Intriguing.

And did I mention CREEPY? Good stuff.

Photo: Mark LaFlamme scares himself with the help of a Haunted Forest (VT) actress. More photos on Flickr! WARNING: Graphic content.