EelKat Wendy C Allen - Dark Fantasy Author

UPDATE March 17, 2021: Another death. Waiting for a coffin to be delivered. Funeral the 21st. Unlikely to be streaming for a few weeks.


Update: March 27, 2021: It's not even been a week since the funeral, and now there is another death and another funeral.


UPDATE April 5, 2021: There are still no streams, as, we've now a another (a 3rd) funeral to prepare for.

And that is now 3 deaths in our family, in the past 2 weeks.

This 3rd death hits hard, because it was Pippi.

Our family has now had 13 deaths since March 2020.

April 10, 2015, 12 children were kidnapped.

May 15, 2015, the heads of 10 of them were nailed to my door.

August 24, 2020, one was found still alive. he was just 4 years old when she was kidnapped, but she remembered us, even though 5 years had passed.

August 25, 2020, Pippi came home, but her condition was not well. She had been tortured the entirety of the 5 years she had been held hostage. She was missing limbs and covered with scars, had broken bones many years not set, and suffered serious damage to many of her internal organs. That she was alive at all, in her condition, was a miracle. Doctors had little hope of her survival and she was sent home with Hospice care.

Pippi had cancer in her eye and needed surgery for it, which she was scheduled to have, shortly before she was kidnapped.

In the years they had her, not only did they torture her, but her cancer went untreated and spread to her brain.

By the time she was returned to us, her cancer had reached an inoperable state, so we knew she did not have much time left.

Had her cancer been treated, back when she was a toddler, she probably would have reach adulthood.

She died only 8 months after her return.

Another child, to cry out from the grave, for Etiole's vengeance upon her murderers. Another victim of evil men, who will stoop to no ends, to bury the crimes they committed 50 years ago.  Drug lords. Opium growers. Heroine dealers. Selling little girls 4 to 8 years old for sex to priests. They only care about money.

All hail the mighty tourist ass. Millions come to Old Orchard Beach every year, for one thing and one thing only: heroine. They sell their drugs to the tourists under the pier and off the balconies of that giant motel. Than drag little girls to the bedrooms of the condominiums on Smithwheel Road, behind the school. And any child who dares open their mouth and beg for help, gets tossed in the GooseFare Brooke Ravine.

Bastard drug lords. They've been doing this for 50 years, and the town hall and the police department, turn a blind eye to it, because they get paid $6million a year to not report it to the newspapers, when the body of another child washes down the ravine, into the gulley to be spit out in the ocean. No fewer than 5 bodies are found every summer, but how often does it get in the news?

The corruption of this fucking town needs to end.

Yet another dead at the hands of these criminals who run our town.

How long will the residents continue to turn a blind eye to what is happening in our town.

How many more children will you let them kill, before you stand up to them?

Another child is dead and no one in this town cares. So long as they get their money from the tourists. The blood of another murdered child screams from the graves, begging for justice. Tick tock, tick tock, so begins, yet another of Etiole's 7 year clocks.

This is why there were no/to few streams from May 2020 until now.

May 2020, after 4 years of not hearing from them at all, the FBI returned with a lead, which led to Pip's discovery a few weeks later in August.

Because of the nature of the situation, I could not talk about it, to tell you why streams had stopped.

The kidnappers, were enraged that we had recovered Pip, and that is when the attacks started up again on my home and family September 2020.

Pip's condition continued to grow worse, and she died April 5, 2021.

She was only 10 years old.

This is what it means, to not be white in America.

White men, won't even give a child the chance to grow up.

This is what white people do, to none white families like mine.

We are Gypsies with Jewish blood, for that alone we are hunted like animals.

What the men of Old Orchard Beach, Maine, did to my family, will never be forgotten or forgiven.

#If you have any information on the kidnappers or the murders...

#FBI Agent Andy Drewer out of the Portland, Maine FBI office is in charge of the of the April 10, 2015 kidnapping of my 12 children by 14 Ku Klux Klan men who invaded our home and the subsequent May 15, 2015 murder of 10 of the 12 whom had their heads nailed to my front door. If you have information about the case, give it to him not me. He can be reached @ +1-(207)-774-9322 

Have you forgot the extent of the damage these people did, all because, they wanted to dig up my land and removed bodies buried there, before my house builders found that barrel of bones?

Have you forgotten that 7 town hall workers, 5 public works men, a blond woman, her bald son, and her red haired sister Kendra, and 14 police officers, all lead by a man they referred to as "Mark who needs no last name" were the ones 

I name every one of them, except for the ring leaders: blond woman, her bald son, her sister Kendra, and her husband "Mark who needs no last name". I don't know who those 4 are. I'd never seen any of them, other than the Kendra woman before, and I only knew her fro her attacks beating me up at Panera in 2009, 2010, and 2013.

I can name every one of the others, because all I have to do is go to the Old Orchard Beach town hall and police department website, and their are their faces.

With the exception of blond woman, her bald son, her sister Kendra, and her husband "Mark who needs no last name", every one else involved was government official who works for the state of Maine vis the Old Orchard Beach Town Hall, the Old Orchard Beach Police Department, or the Old Orchard Beach Public Works.

And what exactly did they do?

August 8, 2013 they drove a backhoe over my house. That same backhoe drove over my previous house on the same land April 2007. That same backhoe drove over my poultry barn and horse stables July 2001. July 2001 was the first attack.

March 2015 was the the massive attack, with an entire fleet of trucks, and drove over the Church of the Holy Rhinstone, a church that stood on my land, my garage which is why I no longer have a garage to put my car in, my 2 sheds both of which had my tractors and other garden/crop machinery in them at the time. And of course the razing of the land, the cutting down of the apple orchard - the VERY apple orchard planted in 1530 that this town was named after... he actual "old orchard" of Old Orchard Beach... the very original trees - huge massive apple trees over 400 years old. The grape vineyards, the cherry trees, the pears trees. 

April 10, 2015, they returned, 4 police officer held me a gun point, while 10 other police officers held my children down with long poles with metal wire strangle loops on the end, and beat their faces in with cinder block bricks, knocking out every one of their teeth, breaking their jaws... POLICE OFFICERS DID THAT... while men they referred to as "Mark who needs no last name" and "Dan" stood there and told the police officers what to do, how to beat them, while "Mark who needs no last name" boldly bragged that he paid the Old Orchard Beach police $6million dollars to do this.

May 15, 2015... the heads, hands, feet, and intestines of my children were nailed to my door. Later that same day police officer W. W. came to my home begging for forgiveness and claimed that men he referred to only as "Mark and Dan" were holding his beloved mother-in-law hostage and torturing her, and he helped in the April 10, 2015 attack, only to save her life and get her back. He claimed he had no prior knowledge of what was going to happen, claiming that he'd been told they were only going to "scare" us. He said he had not expected anyone to get hurt, he had not known my children would be tortured and kidnapped, he had not known they were going to be murdered. He said he was scared for his life and lives of his family. And he said: "They form a small army, our department doesn't have enough man power to stop them, and every one in this town is too scared to fight back. You don't know what's going on. And I think they mixed you up with someone else. They didn't know you were the owner of this land. They didn't know that was your motorhome. They thought someone else owned this place. It wasn't even your family they were after. You were the wrong target. You don't know who these people are. What they've done to our families. This is the actual Mafia. The real deal. I'm so sorry. This is the address they sent us to. But they had a different name as the owner. This wasn't supposed to happen. They were after someone else. I'm so sorry. I couldn't let my family died. And now yours is dead instead. This wasn't supposed to happen."

June 19, 2016... I did a very specific livestream. You see... A., D., B., and T. in the 1970s and 1980s, were in the habit of dragging big black trash bags into the forest, crossing my land to do it, and dumping those bags into the Goosefare Brook Ravine. In 1983, 3 snuck into Etiole's swamp and planted 3 acres of Marijuana. Someone found it and called the police, I don't know who... it was Maine's largest drug raid for decades. Many, many millions in plants where dug up and removed from Etiole's swamp. A few weeks later A, & D,s 10 year old daughter ran into my yard, touched my car on a dare from other children - the 1964 Dodge 330 former Old Orchard Beach police car, known by Stephen King fans as the REAL Christine, The World's Most Haunted Car... than jumped her bike, and sped down the road, as fast as she could, head on into a car coming the other way. She died instantly, he brain shattered all over the end of my driveway, and her mother A responded by the Battle of 458 - the biggest mass shooting ever in Maine history, that ended up with 3 Gypsy clans and 2 police departments, in a shoot out between 70+ adults all armed with guns. One of my cousins, an 8 year old boy, standing 3 feet from me, had his eye shot out by one of the bullets. While A ran around the street screaming: "FOUR! FIVE! EIGHT!" than shot another child. 

"FOUR! FIVE! EIGHT!" than shoot another child. 

"FOUR! FIVE! EIGHT!" than shoot another child. 

THOSE are the 31 children, whose bones were sawed up and tossed into the GooseFare Brook Ravine... yes, that DOES mean, police officers KNEW those children were there and covered it up.  And I witnessed that entire event.

And THAT is WHY... when police officers murdered my family in 2015, I did a livestream, walking to the ravine, to show the world, where those bones were... because I'm sick and tired of the police corruption in this fucking town, and those sawed up bones of 31 children are PROOF of what this town government is like.... as are the heads of my children that were nailed to my door.

At the end of The Battle of 4-5-8... A. took 2 gas cans and poured them all over the big dome house, than set a match to it, and no one knew, why when she did her brother B., started running, jumped in his robin egg blue truck and backed down the driveway, hit Portland Ave doing 70 and didn't stop driving until the high speed chase caught him in CT... oh but we knew before he was out of sight, why he started running... the dome house went up like Hiroshima into a mushroom cloud that could be seen across the entire state... turns out there was a Meth lab in that house.

June 19, 2016... the livestream of the bones went viral, it's what made my YouTube channel suddenly explode overnight... and police officer W.W. upset, by the fact that, the livestream included the entire police call and response, and that response was to laugh and do nothing... fed up with the corruption in his department, he forwarded that livestream VOD to the FBI, and the FBI arrived in Old Orchard Beach, to dig up the Reclaim Blueberry Plains, and all hell broke lose in this town, as most of the police officers suddenly found themselves arrested. An entire new police force from out of state was brought in to replace the long time officers who had proven they could be trusted to uphold the law. Many town hall officials and public works employees also found themselves arrested by the FBI.

June 26, 2016... barely a week later... the blond woman and the red haired Kendra woman showed up at my workplace, Scarborough WalMart, and tried to kill me, yet again... these are the same 2 woman who attacked me with golf clubs at Southern Maine Community College November 14, 2013... they left dead in 2013, I was paralized for 5 months. It took me 18 months to relearn to walk. I was out of the wheel chair, and I was without a walker, I was without a cane. I had almost fully covered from their November 14, 2013 attack with golf clubs... June 26, 2016, this time they attacked with shopping carts, and I'm now crippled for the rest of my life. They shattered 3 vertebra this time and it can't be operated on. I had to relearn to walk a second time, and I'm not yet recovered now in 2021. In 2013 they drove away in the 4 door white pickup truck. In 2016 they drove away in a gold Volvo SUV station wagon.

That blond woman and her red haired Kendra sister, they are wanted by the FBI for attempted murder of me and they are also wanted in questioning for being suspected of also being the murderers of my children.

I don't know who these 2 women are.

The blond woman shows up my driveway frequently, screaming and yelling, sometime accompanied by a small child, about 5 years old, that she pulls behind her in a red radio flyer wagon. She looks to be about 60 or 70. She often wears a denim button down shirt and jeans. She's prone to yelling at passing cars, while pointing up my driveway, and saying: "There's EelKat, she tried to kill my husband."

I've never tried to kill anyone, so accusation is baffling at best.

She seems to think I know who she is, and has made the claim, that "I was that brat in school"... the red haired Kendra woman, sometimes with her, claims to be her sister, also appears to be 60 to 70 and also seems to think I know who she is, and frequently says: "You bullied me in school, but no more, I'm Kendra SilverMander it's my turn to shine."

They BOTH make the claim they went to school with me, and yet, I never went to school, a well documented fact... because I'm the child the FBI rescued what the news media called "Maine's House of Horrors". I was locked in a cage when I was 8 years old. I was let out on Sundays, to go to church, and not allowed to speak or make eye contact with anyone, and this was only done infrequently, whenever church goers asked what happened to that girl you had". I was 31 years old when the FBI arrived, because of Heaven's Gate having killed 39 people, and my uncle being one of the members and self proclaiming himself as the leader of Heaven's Gate after Applewhite's death. The FBI was investigating the murder of 39 people in California, and had no idea they'd find children in cages in Maine as a result.

So you see, when the blond woman and her Kendra sister, make the claim they went to school with me and I was the class bully who beat them up, this is easily proven false, because the time period when I should have been in school, I was locked in a cage, being tortured by my sadistic uncle Bruce.

Also, they are in their late 60s to mid 70s... making them older than my parents, so how could I have been in school with them, even if I had gone to school? At best I would have been starting pre-school the year they would have been graduating high school.

These things they say about school, only further agrees with what police officer W. W. said May 15, 2015, when he made the claim, they had gotten me mixed up with someone else.

July 2016, a month after the shopping cart attack... yet another Old Orchard Beach police officer arrived, this one accompanied by 2 Biddeford officers, who had been former OOB officers... these 3 officers, had a vastly eye opening story to tell me.

They had been called to Old Orchard Beach, to my farm, to arrest me, a call made to them, by a man named Mark, whom one of these officers, claimed was his brother in law. This Biddeford officer, said he requested to transfer ot of Old Orchard Beach department years ago, because his sister (whom he claimed he suspected, but could not prove was the blond woman whom had attacked me at WalMart) was quote "trying to control the town" he said "treats Old Orchard Beach like a dynasty, thinks she's a duchess, has severe mental disorders, and thought she could buy the police department". He went on to say, she got in with the real Mafia years ago and went to her head, and now she thinks she IS the Mafia and most of Old Orchard Beach's business owners, especially the motel owners are scared shitless of her, because they believe her claim to be Mafia. He went on to say, she's not Mafia, but she's good at convincing people she is and stated "I wouldn't murder beyond her. She'd do it just to prove she is Mafia." He said he transferred out of OOB department to Biddeford department because he was fed up with how easy it was for her to get every officer to do anything she asked. He said "the corruption in that department runs deep; don't cross her or any officer she controls; they WILL kill you and every around you. You don't know who her husband is. He doesn't just control that town, he controls half the state."

What he was telling me was bizarre on extremes, but even more bizarre was the live feed radio call, that he had me listen too, as it was happening, on my farm in Old Orchard, while I was at my dad's house in Biddeford.

He said: "The Old Orchard Department called me, asked me to come over here. Buddy Will wanted to prove you were not in Old Orchard and that Mark has you mixed up with someone else. That fucking bastard is crying wolf and trying to frame you, we can prove it right now. We are fucking fed up WolfBoy."

He turned on his radio, so I could hear. A what I heard... a man whose voice I do not recognize, yelling at a Officer W.W. and saying: 

"That is Wendy, arrest her now! That is EelKat. She tried to kill me."

While officer W.W. and another officer, told the man: "his isn't Wendy. We have officers with her right now. Who tried to kill you? Wendy? Or THIS woman right here?"

"This woman right here! This is EelKat I tell you! Arrest her! What do you think I pay you for! You aren't allow to defy me! I own this town! You are my slaves. I command you to arrest her!"

W.W.: "This isn't EelKat. This isn't Wendy. I've known her for years. And right now, she's on the other side of the state. With 3 officers, listening to you right now. You are NOT the law. We've had it with you. You don't own me. And you've mixed her up with someone else. You've been harassing the wrong damned person. You dare call us about Wendy ever again, and I will personally arrest you for false reports, than I'll tell them everything. You'll never see the outside a prison for the rest of your life when I get done with you. You fucking leave this woman alone. You destroyed her life, because you couldn't tell her apart from someone else."

I used to aqua jog, mountain climb, horseback riding, and I hiked 13 miles a day. And in the blink of an eye, that lifestyle was taken away, and every day was struggle, just to sit up and breath, with no hope of ever walking again. I defied doctors. It's been 8 years and I can move around the house by holding on to things and I now can walk again, at the moment only short distances outside with a cane, and the hope is to continue to improve. I still have a long road of recovery ahead. But I'm walking again, something that 8 years ago, doctors said would never happen. 

My farm was razed.

My family was murdered.

I was 5 months paralysed, and had to relearn to walk. It was 8 years ago and I'm not yet fully recovered due to 3 inoperable vertebrae and hip dysplasia. November 14, 2013, 10PM, at WalMart, while putting bags of groceries in the back seat of my car, I was attacked by 3 rapists armed with metal golf clubs, who left me parallelized, in a wheel chair, broken spine, broken hip, broken pelvis, broken knees, serve nerve damage to my left side limiting the use of my left hand, my bladder incontinent from nerve damage, they left me for dead, and I had doctors telling me I would never walk again.

There's more that has happened. A lot more. The thousands of gallons of sewage they pumped into my motorhome in 2015. The cats. the Ptarmagin cats. World famous groups of cats. You remember them. If so, you remember what these people did to those cats. Poisoned. All dead the same day. 12 cats. Dead to what the vet described as: "enough poison to kill a great dane". My horse, she had her head beat in with a rock. My bantam roosters... 70 pet roosters, hung by their necks in rope nooses in my rose bushes.

All because this man, this mystery Mark, whose last name seems to be known to the police but is still unknown to me and man whom I've never seen or met - he keeps his face covered whenever he shows up... mistook me for someone else... and police officers and town hall workers and public work employees.

Welcome to Old Orchard Beach... this is NOT the way life should be, you know it.

What these people did to me, should never have happened, and according to the police, it's been happening for 50+ years to hundreds of people, hundreds of families, in this town, and every one is too scare to talk about it or fight back to stop it. That NEEDS to change.

The corruption in our town, needs to stop... but it won't end, until every last person who is being harassed by these people stand up, put their foot down, and say enough is enough, we ain't gonna take this any more.

We the people of Old Orchard Beach need to take back our town.

NOTE: Chat is set to emote only on my Twitch channel and my personal contact information has been removed from my website and every place else, due to the HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS of false reports of "information", along with vile hateful memes about the murder of my family being sent to me by trolls who think mocking the murder of my family is funny.

FBI Agent Andy Drewer out of the Portland, Maine FBI office is in charge of the of the April 10, 2015 kidnapping of my 12 children by 14 Ku Klux Klan men who invaded our home and the subsequent May 15, 2015 murder of 10 of the 12 whom had their heads nailed to my front door. If you have information about the case, give it to him not me. He can be reached @ +1-(207)-774-9322 

If you could recommend I watch one VOD that best represented your channel, which would it be?

This one....

The Princess Bride predicting Covid-19?

Avallac'h's a Good Tutor?
Of What? How to Better Bed Kings?


Please be aware that nearly every page on this website contains spoilers to something. I talk about a lot of fandoms, and go into great detail analyzing them when I do. If I am talking about The Witcher series, InuYasha, Disney Ducks, the Quaraun series, or any other fandom, you WILL encounter spoilers about it. 

What The Ocean Gives Me

(How Things In Your Life Affect Your Writing)

April 19, 2012

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"You've credited the ocean for being one of the best sources of ideas for writing. You recommended that if I had writer's block that I go to the beach and become one with the ocean, and that living walking distance from the ocean was my best bet for curing writer's block. Well, I tried all that and I got nothing. What does living near the ocean give you? Why is living near the ocean so great? How does living near the ocean give you writing ideas? I don't see what it is you are seeing because I still have writer's block and am not getting any ideas. Could you please explain how I'm to get ideas from the ocean? "

What does living near the ocean give me? Why is living near the ocean so great? I love the ocean. I was born and raised on the ocean, by people who likewise were born and raised on it, for many, many generations. The ocean is in my blood. What does it give me? Shells to collect, peace of mind at the end of the day, serenity, beauty, a sense of place. The ocean waves crashing ‘round my body are like hugs from an old friend. Why is it so great? The sights, the feels, the sounds, the smells. The glistening blue, the cloudy green, the deadly grey, sand in my toes, sand in my hair, the cleansing salty grit contrasting with the frigid cold wetness, the cry of the gulls, the screams of the loons, the shrill call of the killdeer, the salty, misty, musty fog, drenched is hints of seaweed and crab. I love my ocean in all it’s glory.

The ocean inspires some of my best writing. Inspiration, that is what the ocean gives me. It can inspire me to write soft beautiful romance, with its hot summer days and lovers in the sand; or it can inspire me to write simple stories of the simple joys of children building sandcastles while puppies chase frisbees in the gentle surf. I could write those things, most people do, it’s not very hard, I have done it before, but more often than not, I don’t.

 Dark brooding stories of blood and death. Drowning victims, bodies washing up along the shore, mermen strangling young women with seaweed, monsters from the deep surfacing to swallow you whole, tourists trapped at hide tide, dashed to death on the rocks, falling from the slippery cliffs to lay shattered on in a shell lined grave bones picked clean by gulls and crabs. That’s what I write.

I could write about seaside carnivals, I often do. But what side of the carnival to I choose? Happy. Joyful. Couples laughing on the ferris wheel overlooking the Pier? Children their faces sticky with cotton candy, waiting in line to ride the Shooting Stars? Or their demise, as darkness falls, and moon rises over the cool black waters, revealing the ride operators for what they truly are: brain sucking zombies, the carnival a trap to lure in tourists for food, like sheep to the slaughter.

Why do I write, the dark things I write? Why does the ocean inspire such terror?

Since 1978 I have written 200+ short stories, 2,000+ articles, a couple of comic book scripts, a few dozen short play scripts, 5,000+ blog posts, several dozen sermons, countless political rants on the injustice of *insert current political topic I’m ranting about here*, and a few books on folklore, alien abduction, cryptozoology, fulltime RVing, and life on the streets. The ocean takes center stage in all of it.

Shifting Sands (EelKat's Twisted Tales)

I write every day. That’s 31 years of writing every day, or 11,315 days of writing on average 7,000 words a day, except during The National Novel Writing Month contest when I write on average 15,000 words a day for 30 days. I’ve already written more than 7,000 pieces on a range of topics, and the ocean takes the lead in nearly every one, not simply as scenery, but as an ever imposing character, overbearing and bearing down on everyone it crosses. Darkness, sci-fi, gore and horror; once in awhile the occasional romance gone very horribly wrong. I could have done none of this without my ocean.

Most folks look at the ocean and see warm summer days, children, laughter, lovers, family vacations, and fun in the sun. I look at the ocean and write pages dripping with blood.

Why do I write what I write? My readers ask me this all the time.  Perhaps the question itself is the answer to which I seek. Maybe we can answer this question and get this assignment written at the same time, by looking at two questions my readers have sent me:


 “You are such a prolific writer, you seem to be able to write about anything. I wish I could write like that, but I never know what to write about. Where do you get your ideas?”

“Where do you get your ideas?” It’s one of the most asked questions I hear. The answer is simple, I get my ideas from the ocean, and not just any ocean, mind you, but the Atlantic Ocean, specifically, the cold North Atlantic along the coast of Maine, usually, specifically Old Orchard Beach, though in the Twighlight Manor stories, Old Orchard Beach has had Otter Cove, The Thunder Hole, Quechee Gorge, and The Flume all dropped into it. You will not find gorges, waterfalls, caves, or neck breaking cliffs in the real Old Orchard Beach. I take great artistic liberty with grabbing natural places from all over the world and dropping them down in Old Orchard at random.


“Is Old Orchard Beach a real place? Why are all your stories set in this town?”

Yes, it is a very real place. The Town of Old Orchard, Maine (originally known as The Garden By the Sea, Quebec, until 1821 when Maineland, Quebec was stolen by America, ripped off of Canada, remained Maine and declared a very reluctant American-hating territory of The United States), is the actual name. Old Orchard Beach, is not the name of the town, but rather is a 7 mile long beach which stretches from Biddeford, through Saco, running the whole length of Old Orchard, and ending in Pine Point/Scarborough.

I was born and raised in Old Orchard, Maine, as were both my parents. My father’s grandfather George Ricker, was the first fire chief, and his many times great-uncle, Thomas Rogers, settled the town in 1548, and I still live on that original piece of land. One branch of my family literally built this town. This is more than just a town, it’s my family's personal history.

No, I don’t set my stories anywhere else. I have agoraphobia. I’ve never been anywhere else.

I have Autism. I write what I know, and this town is the town I know. I know this beach, it’s every curve and wave. I know what it’s like to stand on the shore with a 70MPH hurricane whipping all around me, my skin covered in tiny glass cuts caused by the blast of sand. I know what it is to stand on the shore during a February snow squall, with temperatures -48F.

Locals call me “The Sea Witch of Old Orchard Beach”, a title they give me, not because I am a witch (I'm not a witch at all), but rather a title they get me because they are simply scared shittless of the "crazy woman"  who lives in the woods with 200 cats and is rarely ever seen in public.When I am seen in public my inability ro speak (Autism) and my "outlandish clothes" (I'm a life actor) result in awe and terror at the "strange create" that "has emerged from the Ross Forest to stroll on our beach" (words of the Town Manager Jim Thomas in 2007, who accussed me of not only witchcraft but also of being a junx and a poltergiest, claiming that every time I set foot on the beach bad things happened and a lot of people died. Strange hysterical, superstitious man, Jim Thomas was. He's gone now).

My mental, spiritual, and emotional connection with this beach is unfathomable. Here is where I meditate, pray, commune with the spirits. I know the tides, the snails, the sandpipers, the gulls, the tourists.  The French Canadians in Speedos, the elderly Floridians in straw hats, the fast talking New Yorkers. The deafening sound of the fireworks, every Thursday night mingled with the crashing waves. The pitch black of night and the thick choking fog rolling in and blotting out every sight, soaking your clothes wetter than a pouring rain, and filling your nostrils with the pungent smell of uprooted seaweed and dead crab. Once in awhile we get the excitement of watching the Coast Guard dredging for dead bodies washed down from the Saco River.

Dead bodies wash up on the beach more often than town officials would like to admit, 5 a year, not uncommon, never less than 3, as many as 10 some years. Not just bodies washing down from the river. People drown in the gully. Parents turn their back on toddlers, letting them swim alone in the gully. Locals don’t go near the gully. They know better. Tourists don’t care. The tourists don’t think about it, I wonder if they even know the danger they are in, should be in the gully, when tide come roaring back in? Do the read the warning signs? Clearly posted, in bright red letters. Swim at your own risk. Dangerous riptide. No swimming after dark. No one thinks about it. Not even when the bodies wash ashore. Neighboring towns don’t care. The papers never say where the body was found, only where it fell in, in some little town no one ever heard of deep in the forests of Northern Maine.

No one knows the dark side of Old Orchard Beach. They see the signs, but no one cares. Danger. Warning. Beware. Riptides. Stay behind the fence. No swimming after dark. Tourists ramble past, not giving the signs a second glance. Why should they bother read a sign? They are here for fun in the sun on their great big family vacation. We don’t want to think about the dangers. Who cares that we’ll be flying one of our own back home in a coffin. It’s the beach, I’m here to swim. They come. They swim. They die. It’s the same thing every year. Tourists are stupid. They have no respect for the ocean and the dangers it brings.

The only people who really know the dark side of our beach, are those of us, fewer than 2,000 year round residents, who live here on it and actually see the Coast Guard pulling up the bodies. The red and white helicopters, big red ships, little red dignies, yellow police tape closing off the beach....”Nothing to see here, folks, nothing to see,” say the soldiers as they push back the crowds. For many years I have sat in my bedroom window watching bodies being pulled out of the gully, wrapped in red body bags, and loaded into Coast Guard helicopters. There’s a reason why no one who lives here on the beach, actually swims in the ocean. We know the danger. We’re right off the Saco River delta so, any body that falls in the river from here to Canada, is eventually going to wash up on our beach. The Great Saco River and its infamous Saco River Curse. World’s most haunted river. Claims more bodies than any other. And here is where it dumps them. The Saco River coughs up bodies on our beach, like a cow coughing up its cud.

The Saco River Curse is a local legend based on a strange and unexplained series of deaths that have occurred here at the Saco River Delta where the river meets the Atlantic Ocean. The history of the Saco River Curse goes like this:

The York family moved to Saco (Maine) and built a house on the tiny island overlooking a huge waterfall where the Saco River dumps into the Atlantic Ocean. They named the place York Manor of York Hill. On the other side of the river was Saco Island (today known as Factory Island at the Memorial Bridge Crossing). On Saco Island lived a tribe of Native American Indians who worshiped or rather feared a local river demon, Memegwesi, a type of Faerie or water dwelling trickster. On the mainland just a few hundred yards away, was the port where sailors docked (and still dock to this day - and is where I park my Volvo when you hear me talk of parking on York Hill when I visit my dad at his Biddeford apartment).

One night, in 1547, three drunken sailors rowed across the river to Saco Island, kidnapped a baby from the Indian tribe, than rowed across to York Hill, where they threw the baby into the waterfall, claiming that Indians were born able to swim, thus it would survive the fall. The baby's mother followed desperately after them, and jumped into the falls trying to save her baby. Both the mother and the baby were crushed to death on the rocks below. The husband/father was also the tribe's medicine man/witch-doctor/shaman/holy man. Infuriated at the white men for killing his wife and child, he went to the waterfall and called upon the river demon asking it to punish the white men, by killing three white men in the waterfall of York Hill, every year for eternity, so that no one would ever forget what these men had done to his beloved wife and child. To date, no year has passed since with less than 3 deaths in the waterfall at the Saco River Delta on York Hill.

Marquis de La Fayette, resided here during the American Revolution. A vast fort was built on the islands surrounding York Hill. The English Lobsterbacks were rumored to have meet a watery grave at the hands of the river’s demon. Local Fisherman claimed we had won the war against England because the Memegwesi it had been English soldiers who’d killed the baby so long ago.

By the late 1700’s church groups began congregating on York Hill, some claiming to have encounters with not a demon, but rather an angel, others claiming communication with the spirits of long dead Indian chiefs, some claiming Faerie communications, at least one claimed to talk to men from the sun, another said a man from Venus, and some began to call the Memegwesi “The White Salamander” (Salamander being a type of Welsh shapeshifting Faerie), while still others gathered to bless the river and exorcise its demon. Hundreds of attempts were made to remove the curse, and more than 200 new (mostly short lived) religions sprung up and were found here in Saco Bay. The most famous of these were “The Community of Christ”, "The Society of Free Brethren and Sisters”, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints” (aka The Mormon Church),  “The Salvation Army” and “The Shakers” all of which still exist to this day.

By the 1800’s our little haunted river, with its white sands beach, had begun receiving tourists. During the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln came to Saco Island, hoping to get a glimpse of the river’s “Old Indian Ghost”. His visit would inspire folks to on those new fangled things known as locomotives, for the purpose of ghost hunting in Maine. This spot has been a hotbed for ghost hunters ever since.

In the early 1800's the fort was turned into a huge mill factory on Saco Island, and the death toll skyrocketed, as a transvestite serial killer took advantage of the curse and took to rapeing mill girls and then tossing them in the waterfall. The most famous of these murders was the infamous Bean Murder of Factory Island, which resulted in the capture of the abortion doctor who had made a habit of pretending to be a mill girl in order to kill all the women who'd had an abortion. He pleaded that he had been possessed by the river demon and got off with hardly any punishment, only a few months of hard labor, in spite of having been wanting in suspicion of having killed over a dozen young women.

Stories of ghosts haunting the house began to rise. In the late 1800's York Manor was torn down by terror crazed locals who were convinced that the house was haunted by the ghost of the father/husband/medicanman. They believed that tearing down the house would end the curse. The remains of the house were saved, however and the house was rebuilt elsewhere in Saco, where it stands today, in its new giant Victorian apartment building form, next door to the church on Smith Street, behind the Amato's, beside the RiteAid, across the street from Thornton Academy. That big yellow Victorian mansion, is what was once, many years ago, known as the York Manor the cursed haunted house of York Hill. Removing the house from the island, removed the curse from the house, which has had no farther hauntings since it’s move.

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In the early-1900's, with the death toll now toppling the thousands, locals decided that it was not the house, but the river itself, which was cursed, and that the only way to end the curse was to destroy the waterfall. Which they did. They tore down the rocks and poured a cement dam in an attempt to stop the flow of the river. All they succeeding in doing was flooding what is now downtown Saco and downtown Biddeford, resulting in the twin sister streets on each town, being renamed “Water St”. By the 1960s where the waterfall once stood, was built a functioning dam and the CMP hydroelectric power station now sits where once sat York Manor at the peak of York Hill across from the Saco Train Station.

Today the tiny Saco River Dam at York Hill, hardly 20 feet wide, is considered the most haunted dam in the world, with a higher death toll than any other dam/waterfall in the world. At a recorded rate of no less than 3 men drowned every year for over 500 years, the death toll is now over 2,000 men (not including women and children) killed on York Hill since 1547. No year has passed with less than 3 white men killed by falling into the dam, and most years 5 death occur, while some years there have been as many as 10 deaths. I have personally seen years with as many as 12 deaths. For centuries fishermen feared go out in Saco Bay in early Spring, instead waiting for 3 men to drown that year, before letting any boat touch the water. Even today no local fisherman will drop his boat in Saco Bay, until after 3 deaths have passed. Every year, they wait. They never wait long. This year, 2012, they only had to wait til March, before the Saco River took its toll: a man beheaded by the train on the rail bridge over York Hill Dam, a boy fell off the dam into the water below just a few feet away, and a whole family missed the turn and perished as their car sailed over the bridge into a watery grave below. My dad lives at the apartment on Water St overlooking the river. We see the Coast Guard dredging for bodies and police rerouting traffic away from Memorial Bridge, several times each year. In spite of the church groups and prayer warriors, who still to this day, are pouring holy oil and tossing rose wreaths off the bridge every June 26th, we have reached 2012, with the curse is still going strong, and the  little white crosses along the banks of the river stretching ever onward.

And that is the Saco River Curse.

The Saco River. The river which feeds the Saco Bay Delta. The beautiful beach in the Saco Bay Delta, known to the tourists as The Great Old Orchard Beach, home of the Guinness World Record Plaque which reads “The World’s Finest Sand”. Tourists stop and oogle at the plague, exclaiming, “Oh, look at that! It was voted the best beach!” No. It was not. Scientists trying to explain a rational reason behind the phenomenon that is known as the Saco River Curse, came in and tested the sand, and marveled when they discovered the smallest aka “the finest” grains of sand known to man. Farther up river they found some of the sharpest edged rocked in the world, at the base of York Hill, and during a winter storm, Saco Bay churns up some of the deadliest and coldest waves in the world. It it any wonder that an iceberg took out The Pier in 1917 and another iceberg crashed on shore in 1941 or that a town with 2million summer residents has only 1,800 winter residents and is a virtual ghost town with stores shut down and buildings boarded up? World’s finest beach at the mouth of the world’s most haunted river? Yes, and for a damned good reason. Our beautiful beach. Our beautiful river. It’s dark haunted past, has not demons and curses, but raging white water rapids, a roaring riptide, and wild winter storms to blame.

One can not live on the edge of the ocean at the mouth of this monstrous river, without being affected by the river which feeds the bay. Each year tourists come in millions. The packs and herds, they flock to our shores in droves. Our beautiful, deadly, dark, bloody beach. They come and go oblivious, so few ever know. And then they read my books, and ask in utter horror, Why? Why do you write this great wonderful place, in such a dark, horrid light? How could this place of utter beauty inspire you to write such utter horror? How? Why? Because I know this beach. I know this river. I know the dangers that lay in wait. I know the deeper story, the one you do not see. You see the surface beauty of the crystal blue waters, but I see the deep dark truth, that lay in the rocks below. You come and go. I live here every day. You see only its natural beauty. I see it’s every drop.

People think it’s creepy, my morbid fascination with this little known dark side of this beach. Every town has its secrets. Little skeletons in the closet. The Town of Old Orchard depends on The Old Orchard Beach, and its 2million yearly tourists to survive. It’s a ghost town in the dead of winter, businesses boarded up, homes shuttered, fewer than 2,000 residents by the time snow falls. This town needs tourists to survive. You think the tourists would come swim on a beach that spits up a few dozen dead bodies each and every year? Town officials go, hush, hush, not too loud, we don’t want to scare away the income. So the tourist come with their money, and a few must die to keep our town alive. Only the locals know our beach’s dark little secret.

I love this beach. Everything about it, the good, the bad, the ugly, the utterly unmentionably horrible. It is raw, unforgiving, unpredictable, wild, untamed, mesmerizing, beautiful. I write horror. Vampires. Zombies. Ghosts. Farrdarigs. Phookas. RedCaps. Bloody, bloody Faeries and Mermen from the deep. Haunted mansions clinging to rocky cliffs threatening to throw themselves into the depths of the foaming waves. Bloodthirsty mermen, pulling their victims to cold watery graves. You only see this beach in the bright days of summer. Come back in the winter and see it frozen over. Come back in the fall and brave the blasts of wind, feel the sand as it slices through your tender skin. Come in the spring when you can see nothing for the fog. This cold, icy, foggy beach has atmosphere. The atmosphere here is the perfect setting for horror, especially the horror I write. You can look out over the fog and almost see the ghost ships, the vampires, the fish men from distant is the perfect setting for the dark, gloomy, brooding, bloody Poe-esk stories I like to tell. The beach is the story itself and I am the one it has chosen to tell its tale.

I didn’t choose this beach as a setting. It chose me. The stories come to me as I stand on the slick, jagged granite, listening to the gulls screaming bloody murder through the fog. The little hermit crabs scurry across my feet in search of dead rotted flesh, begging me to write of the murder victims the hide in the tidal pools. Looking down from the rocks, into the drop offs on the other side, the gleaming silver eyes of seals and fish peer up at you though the dancing kelp, but are they fish and seals, or mermen and selkies, lurking, waiting, starving, thirsting, for the unsuspecting human to venture too close to the edge.  The tourist who washes up mangled on the shore, did they really slip and fall, or did a cold icy hand reach up from the deep, and yank them down under by the ankle? Beware foolish travelers. Beware of the deep. For little men lie in wait, your flesh they come to eat.

Where do I get my ideas? Everywhere. I just open my eyes, my ears, my heart...I look around me, I listen, I feel, I smell, I see, I touch, I taste, I empathize, and I write it all down. Every bit of it. I am what I write. I write what I am. Everywhere I go, the beach, the store, the library, here in college, there is something to see, something to hear, something to write. My life is where I get my ideas. That is how I choose my topics. I can write about anything, because the world is full of everything. But the ocean, my ocean, the riptides of Old Orchard Beach, nothing can set a fire under my pen, better than does my beloved white sands beach. I love my ocean. And so, when you ask the question, what does living near the ocean give me? This is what living near the ocean gives me. A blessing. A glory. A history. A curse. A horror. It is my inspiration. The gift to write of terrors, dark and deep. The ocean gives me my career, my life, my inspiration for all I do, for I am a writer, and tales of this ocean is what I write. I would have it no other way.

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