Don't Call Them Ghosts: The Spirit Children of Fontaine Manse- A True Story

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9780738705330: Don't Call Them Ghosts: The Spirit Children of Fontaine Manse- A True Story

In 1971, the author and her family moved into a historic home known as the Fontaine Manse. Two days after moving in, she and her husband had an extraordinary experience that left them with no doubt that unseen residents occupied the house, too.

This is the true story of how Kathleen McConnell came to know and care for the spirit children who lived in the attic of the mansion: Angel Girl, Buddy, and Baby. From playing ball with Kathleen, to saving her son Duncan from drowning, the spirit children became part of the McConnell family in ways big and small. Finally, a heart-wrenching dilemma triggered an unexpected and dramatic resolution to the spirit children's plight.

Don't Call Them Ghosts is an inspiring story of the transcendent and lasting power of a mother's love.

 Coalition of Visionary Resources (COVR) 2nd Runner Up for Biographical/Self Help category

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About the Author:

Born in 1944 in rural New Albany, Indiana, (Margaret) Kathleen McCutcheon was the second youngest of seven children living on a small farm near Louisville, Kentucky.

Kathleen McConnell, as she is now known, has extensive experience in the clerical and administrative arts, and is a Certified Professional Secretary. She loves the excitement of being part of the business world, and has served as an executive secretary to three different presidents or general managers of large corporations.

For as long as she can remember she has believed that there are many things that cannot be seen or explained.  But only since the experience written about in Don't Call Them Ghosts has she believed in spirits. McConnell is quick to point out that there is a distinct difference between a spirit and a ghost.

In 1971, the author and her family moved into the historic home known as the Fontaine Manse. As depicted in the book, she and her family lived in this house for five years and their extraordinary experience forever changed McConnell's life.

Today Kathleen McConnell lives in Louisville with her husband, George, and their five children.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The thunderous noise ripped through our sleeping house.
Something in my brain was commanding me to open my eyes. What in the
world was that?
I thought to myself. I rubbed the crumbs of sleep out of
my eyes as I slowly opened them to the darkness. I lay there silent and listening,
curled in against the small of my husband George's back. Had I heard
a booming noise or did I dream it? Maybe I had just drifted off into
that shimmering sea where we seem to float between sleep and consciousness,
that often jolts us with the alarming thought that we're
falling or that we've missed our step.

Boom! Boom! Boom! The sound tore into my ears like reverberating
thunder, but I knew it wasn't thunder. It had been a beautiful clear
evening in May, with not a cloud in the sky.

George stirred from his sleep. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.
“Of course I heard it,” I whispered directly into his ear. I was too
scared to speak any louder and even more scared to move. “What do
you think it is?” I asked anxiously.

“I don't know. Are all the kids in bed?” he murmured under his
breath.

I released my bear hug on George and quietly, so as not to even
have the bed squeak, turned away from the security of his body just
leaning over to the other side of the bed enough to see the amber
glow on the alarm clock-1:05 A.M.

Speaking rapidly and barely audibly, I replied, “They were. Before
all this racket started. In bed and sound asleep.” I had completed my
routine bed check before turning in just after midnight. George and
I had laid in bed talking about our new house, a very old Victorian
style house we had just moved into two days before.

Boom! Boom! Boom! The splitting noise intensified, again blasting
my momentary pleasant thought through the rooftop.

“George, the noise is inside the house,” I exclaimed in a whisper.
“It's coming from downstairs.” He could hear the anxiety in my voice.
Without saying one word, he quietly slipped out of bed and pulled
his trousers on. Sliding his hand under his side of the mattress he
retrieved his handgun. If he was expecting my usual argument about
the handgun, he was wrong. I hated his keeping a loaded gun under
the mattress, but I hated the idea of an intruder even more. George
tiptoed barefoot to the landing of the stairs and didn't utter a word for
what seemed like five minutes. After those few agonizing minutes of
dark, dead silence, the crashing booms echoed again. He turned on
the light at the top of the steps and that gave an illuminating yellow
glow to the downstairs entryway as well as to the upstairs hallway.
The loud booming continued.

I bolted straight up in the bed, breathing heavily from the uneasiness
of what George might encounter. I waited for George to say
something. Finally, I called out in a loud whisper as if trying to shout
in a lowered voice. “What is it?” All I heard was silence. After three
separate successive occurrences of those deafening booms, I figured
whoever was causing all this commotion wanted to make sure we
heard them, so why whisper? Common sense told me that it wasn't a
burglar. Intruders, who break into other people's homes in the middle
of the night, try not to get caught, but who was it? And where
the heck was George?

“George?” I called to him sharply, no longer whispering, but in a
perfectly audible voice. Still there was no reply.

A little concerned for George's safety and a little annoyed at him for
not answering me, I threw back the sheet and bedspread and got out
of bed. As I approached the doorway, I cautiously peeped around the
door frame and looked down the hall to see George still standing silent
on the landing and completely motionless. He was frozen to the spot,
leaning against the wall, his left hand holding his handgun limply, his
right hand gripping to the banister so hard his knuckles were white.
His gaze told me he didn't hear me when I had called out to him. His
stare was glued to the entryway below. All the while the drumlike
booms continued. What did he see? What was down there? As if in a
trance, I grabbed hold of the banister with a firm grip and slowly
walked the length of the hallway, standing beside George. I looked
over at him, but he didn't look at me. He never took his face away
from the entryway below us. I was afraid to look downstairs. I lowered
my eyes to the front entrance and instantly became as paralyzed as he
by what I witnessed.

The old house has double doors, both outside and inside. The
outer doors were screen doors and inside are finely finished, sturdy
hardwood double doors. At the bottom of the stairs, in the entry, our
eyes were fixed on the inner double wooden doors. Finally, and for
only a moment, we looked away from the doors and at each other in
stunned disbelief, my eyes questioning George for an answer. Both of
us hoped the other would say that our eyes, the house, our imagination,
something or somebody, was playing a trick on us. But we
knew better. We knew. There was no way that what we saw could
have been anybody's trick and certainly not our own imaginations.

The outside doors remained closed. We could see the metal hooks
latched tight on the screen doors as the inner double doors were
slamming back and forth. Those solid wooden doors swung open
wide, all the way to the wall-then Boom!, they would slam shut
with deliberate force. We saw nothing, nobody was to be seen. Our
bare feet might just as well have been nailed to the floor of the landing,
as we stood spellbound gazing down at what we saw. Dumbfounded,
we watched the doors open wide and slam shut for three or
four more performances.

After it became obvious that we had seen the show, it stopped.
We stood there waiting for an encore, but the show was over. I was
trembling so hard I grabbed onto George's right shoulder for some
support. Without speaking a single word to each other, we both
walked in dazed disbelief back to our bedroom. George returned his
handgun to its hiding place beneath the mattress and we got back into
bed. We neither one knew what to say, so we didn't say anything, not
a word all night. Soon enough I heard George's soft familiar snoring,
but sleep did not come as easily for me.

I lay there in the dark with my eyes wide open, thinking about
what had just happened. I knew what it was. When there is no explanation
for something so bizarre, then the only explanation is not
only simple, it's obvious. And whether George would ever agree, it
didn't matter. How I wanted and loved this house! Now two days
after we moved in, I find it is already occupied- by ghosts!

The house was built like a fortress; even the inner walls were brick.
George liked to brag that you could tear this house down one room
at a time and all else would remain in tact, right down to only one
room standing, and that one room would be unharmed. Before we
moved our family here, we had taken two months to do some serious
cleaning and remodeling. Our new house had no central heating system
before we added it. Nearly every room had its own fireplace.

How in heaven's name could George be snoring? He saw the same
thing I did and yet he crawled back in bed and managed to fall right
to sleep. I needed to get to sleep too, but I couldn't sleep. How was I
supposed to sleep after what happened? My brain was telling me we
were going to have to move and my heart was telling me everything
would be okay. But how?

As I lay there in the darkness, I thought about the first time I saw
this house. I fell in love with this piece of history eight years ago,
before I ever knew George McConnell. I was nineteen years old. I
rode the city bus from New Albany, Indiana to work just across the
river in Louisville, Kentucky. One particular summer, repair work
was being done on the old K&I Bridge, so for a time the bus had to
use the new bridge and travel through the old Portland area of
Louisville en route downtown. That's when I first took notice of this
house. That whole summer I always made sure I sat on the righthand
side of the bus so I wouldn't miss a chance to get a glimpse of
“my house.” As soon as the house came into sight I sat transfixed
with my face to the window, and I would watch it as long as I could.
It is a splendid old Victorian house. I don't know what drew me to it,
but every day it beckoned to me and I was captivated by its stateliness.
The house has an air of dignity all its own. Eight years ago I
wondered who lived in this wonderful place, never dreaming that
someday I would.

Many times I saw a little girl standing at the upstairs window. She
always waved as the bus went by and I'd put the palm of my hand
flat against the bus window. I knew she couldn't see me that far away,
but I'd made the gesture to return her wave.

I ordered my brain to stop thinking, but it kept up its constant
bombardment on my efforts to sleep. My mind was flooded with
memories of this house and how we came to live in it.

The house had been for sale a very long time before George and I
bought it. Actually, I think it had been for sale when I watched it
from the bus those eight years ago. George and I had looked all over
Portland for a house we could afford that was big enough for his,
mine, and our kids. In 1971 we decided that, with a new baby on the
way, we just couldn't stay in our little house on 27th Street much
longer. Our little house would be too crowded once the new baby
outgrew the bassinet. George wanted to stay in Portland. He grew
up in the Portland area and loved its rich Ohio River history.

I reached over in the bed and gave George a squeeze. He was
sleeping too soundly to notice. I wanted to shake my fist in the air
and shout. How in God's name could he be sleeping after what happened
just minutes ago? I knew there was something very wrong
with our lovely new house.

My mind continued to wander. I had mentioned on a number of
occasions that I liked the house over on the Parkway. I knew George
thought the same thing I did, that we just couldn't afford it. It would
undoubtedly be way out of our budget. If George thought there was
even a chance we could afford it, we'd be looking at that fine old
house. George is the best husband any woman could hope for. If I
wanted the moon, he'd start building a ladder.

One Saturday afternoon, we'd looked at another big two-story
frame house that was very pretty. It wasn't brick, but it was still lovely.
I had no real feeling one way or another about brick. I really didn't
know why I wanted the other house, but I did. I think the draw was
its elegance. It had style and charm that spoke of noble men and
highborn ladies.

We were very close to making an offer on the two-story frame
house. The owners were asking eleven-thousand dollars, but George
said we could get it for ten. One day he just walked in the door from
work and, out of the blue, said, “Let's just see what they're asking
for it.”

“Asking for what?” I said. I knew exactly what he was talking
about, but I didn't want George to know I had the other house at the
forefront of my mind, and I didn't want him to know it mattered
that much.

“The red brick over on the Parkway,” he answered.

I didn't want to get my hopes up, but it was already too late. I was
sure the house was way out of our price range. We both thought the
sellers would be asking no less than twenty-thousand dollars. In
1971, twenty-thousand dollars was a lot of money for the average
working family to pay for a house, and I'd be leaving work soon
enough with the baby coming.

“It don't cost nothin' to ask,” he said.

George called me from work the next day. “Guess how much they
want for the house?” he teased.

“I bet at least twenty-five thousand.” As I said the words “twenty-five-
thousand dollars,” my spirits dropped like a stone in a deep well,
with the realization of such a great amount of money.

“Nope,” he paused. “How about eighty-five hundred.”

I was silent. I couldn't speak. All of a sudden a dream had become
a possibility.

“Are we interested?” he asked. I could hear the grin in his voice.
He had just handed me something he knew I wanted very much and
he was pleased with himself.

“Are we interested? Are we interested?” I bubbled. I could hardly
contain my excitement. “When can we see it?” I asked.

“Tonight.”

I hung up the telephone and danced around the kitchen like a fool.
“Yes, yes, yes!” was all I could say. I could hardly wait for George to
get home from work. I was six-and-half-months pregnant, and the
pregnancy wasn't going so easily. George and I had been married less
than two years. His youngest daughter, Linda Sue, now sixteen, had
moved in with us a month after the wedding. His ten-year-old son,
Mike, would be with us most of the summer once school let out, and
my own little boy, Ward, would be five in September. George built an
extra room onto the little house right after we married, but with the
baby coming we just plain needed more space.

That evening we were supposed to meet at 7:00 P.M. with the owners
of this beautiful stately old house. We were both excited. We
couldn't wait. We went over at 6:00 P.M. just so we could snoop
around. The house loomed to three stories. White framed the windows
of the red brick. The roof was steep and came to a high point
in the front, not like so many of the old red-bricks in Portland that
are square with flat roofs and have no style. This house had real
stained glass over the double doors at the entrance and a two-foot
border of beautiful stained glass over the arched picture window in
the front room. A black wrought iron fence surrounded the yard,
front to back. The fence had lots of fancy work and the black spokes
were twisted and looked like licorice sticks. Each spoke was topped
with what looked like thick heavy arrowheads. The only color trimming
this elegant old Victorian beheld was the white stone that was
carefully inlaid above every window. Even the front window had the
white stone set in to fan around the archwork of the stained glass.
This house was surely some stonemason's masterpiece. There was
white lattice on one side of the front porch that begged for climbing
red roses, and on the other side of the porch was a tall green juniper
bush. There was only a small walkway between the house and the
fence at the sides.

To the right was a huge corner lot and the big yellow st...

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Descrizione libro Llewellyn Publications. Paperback. Condizione libro: New. Paperback. 264 pages. Dimensions: 8.9in. x 6.0in. x 0.7in.In 1971, the author and her family moved into a historic home known as the Fontaine Manse. Two days after moving in, she and her husband had an extraordinary experience that left them with no doubt that unseen residents occupied the house, too. This is the true story of how Kathleen McConnell came to know and care for the spirit children who lived in the attic of the mansion: Angel Girl, Buddy, and Baby. From playing ball with Kathleen, to saving her son Duncan from drowning, the spirit children became part of the McConnell family in ways big and small. Finally, a heart-wrenching dilemma triggered an unexpected and dramatic resolution to the spirit childrens plight. Dont Call Them Ghosts is an inspiring story of the transcendent and lasting power of a mothers love. Coalition of Visionary Resources (COVR) 2nd Runner Up for BiographicalSelf Help category This item ships from multiple locations. Your book may arrive from Roseburg,OR, La Vergne,TN. Paperback. Codice libro della libreria 9780738705330

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