She arrived with her mother, who we were informed was also her manager. Very interesting. I never had a manager. She must be really good, I thought. She was quite young, perhaps 22 tops, a little pudgy and spoke in a breathless tone, looking out from wide set innocent eyes. Child prodigy, I wondered? I set myself up on the reading agenda for last.
Ms. super psychic went off into the back room of the boutique we were using after hours (it's proprietor one of the lucky readees) to read the other clients, one by one. As they returned, I studied their faces closely, looking for tell tale signs of wonder. She must have been big on soulmate searches, because she gave everyone specific data along those lines, mixed in with whatever else she picked up from their vibrations.
When it was my turn I went to the back room, sat on the john, the only place to sit back there other than boxes in the storage room, and watched fascinated as the psychic "cleansed" herself of the previous client's vibrations, so there would be no confusion. I had never taken sponge baths between my readings, so this was all new to me. Different strokes and all that...however, maybe she didn't use enough soap. She didn't get anything right on me. She gave me a vivid description of my soul mate who she insisted was soon to be on the horizon. He was to be short, slightly balding, stocky, and somewhat morose but I'd be passionately in love when he appeared. I didn't think so. I told her if he showed up I'd pass. I already had a husband by that description.
She went on and on, not hitting on even one thing I could relate to. She said, "Well, obviously you are blocking me. You must be a non-believer." I could see why she felt blocked, it was getting pretty deep in there. We were in the perfect room for it too. I finally told her she must be tired, after reading for 3 others before me. I told her I was a psychic too, grabbed her hand and began to read for her. She was dumbfounded. She should have reimbursed me what I paid her, because the reading I gave her was better than the one she gave me, and I hadn't even bathed first. But, I reasoned she was young and inexperienced, and maybe I was being too tough on her fragile ego. She begged to come to visit me at my house, sure we would soon become life long friends.
She came regularly to visit after that and we would go shopping together. She was a bit of a fundamentalist though. She felt obliged to praise the Lord when the "calling" hit her. So, often I'd stand in the mall, trying to pretend I didn't know her as she raised her hands high and praised the Lord in front of J C Penny's.
She said she was chosen by God and considered herself pristine and virginal, untouched by mankind, and therefore she never wore anything but white. She was looking earnestly everywhere for her soul mate. What would she do when she found him? Maybe they'd pray together in front of McDonald's.
I put her in touch with a dear friend of mine, and next thing I know, she had invited herself for a visit to California to visit. Well, I guess the California sun affected her ideas because she suddenly became obsessed with men and wanted my friend to take her bar hopping and dancing. My friend was over 60 and not real interested, so super psychic went off bar hopping alone and returned each night 3 sheets to the wind and staggered up to bed. Maybe there was another reason her mother had been her manager?
When she returned, she came racing to my house one day and
insisted she had to perform an exorcism on me, because she had
decided that I was possessed by the devil himself. I guess I was
too important a catch for just any novice demon. This had all come
to her in a dream revelation. She also stated she'd been told that
I was a misguided angel and needed to be brought back to the light
of the Lord. Suddenly she was on her knees praying at my feet for
the demons to "begone." I calmly told her that I was quite happy
with my halo the way it was, even if it was being held up by horns.
I asked her to leave. She was quite upset, sure the Devil made me
do it. I never saw her again. I put my answering machine on and
never returned her calls. Finally she stopped calling. I figured
she moved on to reorganize her exorcise programs.
She came on several occasions, and her son's life came up continuously in the readings. She was always worried about him and she loved him dearly. Only a mother could love Maynard. One day she asked to set up an appointment for him for a reading. I was a bit apprehensive, for I lived alone, was divorced, and therefore I was a bit fearful of taking men for readings. She assured me that Maynard was harmless. I suggested tentatively that she accompany him, but she refused saying he was a private person and would not want her eavesdropping. I don't think private is the correct adjective I would use for Maynard...cautious maybe...he used to hide food in his basement in case of robbery.
The fateful day arrived. So did Maynard. He drove up in one of those old battered type pickups with a home-made cab over on the back. His truck was his second home and resembled him; unkempt, ragged and badly in need of restoration. When he came up the front walk, I considered going out the back door and leaving a "gone fishing" sign. But, I was very fond of his mother, a regular client who had sent me many referrals. So, what harm could it do? It was just one more reading.
I opened the door. I came face to face with a man who was obese, wearing a shirt he must have had since he was 10. It was army green, two sizes too small, and had two distinct holes in the mid section, exposing his belly button. One of my better abilities is to analyze everything at a glance, and in this case, with a sniff. His pants may have been wranglers, but had long ago been stripped of that claim. I immediately racked my brain to decide where I would let this amazing hulk sit. It would have to be something indestructible and washable. If ever I'd wanted a stuffy nose, it was then.
So the reading began. As I studied him, trying to be very objective, I noted he had one redeeming quality. He had big dark eyes like a female chihuahua in heat watching the approach of a male great dane. I felt he couldn't be all bad. After all, his mother was so sweet...but much cleaner smelling.
As I laid out the cards for him, he began to talk about himself and I discovered why he gave off such a foul odor. He worked a night shift job, but during the day, he and his truck visited the dumpsters of all the local groceries where he salvaged anything that might be edible, (and maybe some that were not!). This was quite frugal on his part. It helped feed the family.
He went on to say how he supported his mother, his ailing father, and a son of his brother or sister. They all lived in a little wood frame house out in East Capooch or some other God forsaken place, and Maynard was quite proud of the fact that he had bought and paid for it completely. Very commendable, I thought. Now I realized he had a good heart. I would try to be more understanding.
The reading began. Maynard was a Scorpio. You'd expect that regardless of his appearance, that being a Scorpio, sexuality would be a prime life factor. However, at the age of 28, he was totally inexperienced, a fact which tumbled out spontaneously. He wanted to know what the future held in store for him in regards to women. He proceeded to tell me he had set very high standards for the lucky female. She must be pretty, petite, and above all, self supporting. Maynard was a tightwad to the point of obsession, and he had to be sure the lucky woman wasn't after his money.
This reference to money surprised me, as I had been considering giving him a freebie reading because he appeared to be so poverty stricken. Apparently he stashed all his money somewhere in his house, not in banks, for he didn't trust them, and it obviously wasn't in his wallet which was as decrepid as his clothing.
Surprisingly, the cards definitely showed the future appearance of a woman in his life. Maynard was ecstatic and wanted all the details. I didn't want to spend much time on details, considering the fact I was having to take short, small breaths, and feared breathing in too deeply. I said she would be experienced enough, would teach him much, but he would have to be careful of his money.
Finally satisfied, but obviously pained as he withdrew the $5.00 donation from the torn wallet, he rose and lumbered to the door. I sighed a sigh of relief. Well, that was that!
But lo and behold, two weeks later, he was at my door again, unannounced, and requesting a follow-up reading. I pointed out how senselessly and financially imprudent that would be, since I'd already told him my readings generally cover a three-month period. But he was determined to have further knowledge concerning his love life. Well, I noted he was a bit cleaner, wearing another old, but this time holeless T-shirt, and he appeared to have groomed himself to some degree. I'd also previously decided he was indeed harmless, and so I let him in. I mentioned again that he might be wasting his money, but he stated adamantly he did not care. That was a shocker and sparked my own curiosity.
Again the cards were laid out, and again a girl appears, only this time she is closer in time span along with new information. I was enthralled. There did seem to be a good reason for the reading, and I was amazed at what came forth.
As he departed, quite pleased with his reading, he turned and nonchalantly stated he'd left something for me on my doorstep. As he drove off, I noted a cardboard box, brimming with all sorts of grocery items, like torn bags of potatoes, carrots, cracked bottles of dried foods, and a squashed, ripped box of Tide. I must say, I was quite moved. I was struck with guilt for my negative impressions of his extracurricular activity. Seems his mother, relating my struggle to raise a small son all alone, had touched his heart and he'd left me a "care package." I firmly resolved to consider Maynard in a different light.
Some time passed and in the interim, I had moved and all but forgotten Maynard. Then one day, returning home, I found another "care package" on my doorstep with a scrawled note from Maynard saying he'd return later for a reading. He had gone to great lengths to locate me.
He arrived a while later in a very excited mood. He was so cheerful, so unlike the former sad-faced, lost soul he'd been, that I could not imagine what had brought about this transformation.
Immediately, as the cards were laid out, they described a girl in his life. I could see her in my mind. She was pretty, petite, dark-haired, self supporting, and divorced with a small child. Maynard verified all these facts, his eyes gleaming with delight. He asked me if he should ask her out, as presently he only saw her at her house with other friends for weekly pinochle games. He bragged happily about what a good player he was, and how he would deliberately let her win. He had been delivering "care packages" to her on a regular basis, but had been too shy to make any further move toward a more intimate relationship.
I asked, "Maynard, do you really like her a lot?" He said he did, very much. "Does she meet all your standards?" Yes, he was sure she did, but he wasn't sure about the money part. "Do you want to date her Maynard?" He said of course he did, but where could he take her that wouldn't cost too much money?
I suggested that since the fair was in town, why not take her there for the free shows. He answered somewhat thoughtfully, "Well, maybe, but she eats like a horse, and that will cost me." I responded flatly, "Maynard, in matters of love, money should not be a factor. If you really like her, you won't mind." He smiled and nodded, handed me an extra $5.00 and hurried out the door.
A few days later he returned, anxious to tell me all the details of his courtship. It had gone well. She'd enjoyed the free shows and though she and her son ate $15.00 worth of food, he had actually not minded. But now, he wanted more help. There was the matter of sex, and what should he do, because he was very stricken with desire for her. I suggested he discuss it openly with her, tell her the truth, and let nature take it's course. He left with the look of a school boy with his first crush. When he returned a few days later, he stated she had not only understood his dilemma, but agreed to teach him. He was ecstatic and the romantic rendezvous was set.
But alas, love and conquest have their price, even to she who encourages it. About a week later, I got a call from Maynard's mother, mad as a hatter and spewing such venom I was caught speechless. She screamed into the phone. "Why did you direct my poor innocent son into the clutches of that woman?" I tried to keep calm as I told her it was his life, he was of age, and he really liked this girl. Then she laid it on me good. "But she is a prostitute!" "Uh oh" I floundered. "I didn't know that." I'd had her pegged as a bit promiscuous, but under the circumstances, I'd figured it was in Maynard's favor. She demanded I promise to tell Maynard what the girl was, as she could not convince him that his new love was not Rebecca of Sunny Brook Farm.
She told me she'd told him to come to me for this verification. I must convince him for God and country and distraught mothers all over the world. I told her I would check into it, and if she were correct, then I would agree to her demand. I did. She was correct. I agreed to her demand.
Poor Maynard was crestfallen when I gave him a reading that stated the love of his life was a lady of the night, who took on lovers for money. He left, head hanging, and I felt like crying, but I also prayed to God none of them would ever return. I had had enough!
But Maynard, like the tides, the seasons, and the flu, did return...and now he was experienced! As we sat, perusing the possibility of a new love in his life, I felt the axe of foreboding descending. He told me the only woman in the whole world that he trusted, since he now excluded his interfering mother...was me.
My mouth hung open, my eyes were caught in dazed disbelief, and as my cards fell from my shaking hands, words were not forthcoming. Maynard saw this as an encouraging sign. His eyes sparkled as he said he knew I wasn't after his money. I had all the requirements, including his mother's approval. He'd decided he would give me the pleasure of becoming his wife. I could sell my house, and we'd all live happily ever after in his shack in the woods. And during the day (since I'd no longer have to work) we could go dump picking together. He was absolutely assured that this was what I'd been waiting for all along.
Now, you wonder, how did I deal with that? I laid my cards on the table (little pun there) and told him I was already engaged, (which I wasn't) and I was really quite a spendthrift. That touched a chord in his purse strings.
He left, rejected again, but complementing me on being such a fine person for giving up my chances on a catch like him. Shortly after that, I moved away again. I often wondered what happened to Maynard after that.
My client arrived in the middle of the spaghetti disaster. Kids never seem to get the knack of twirling that stuff neatly, do they? She was very sweet, had raised a family of her own, but upon seeing the condition of my kitchen table, had that wry look that says, "I'm glad child rearing is over for me."
After I soiled several dish towels and removed the last remnants of spaghetti from the table, chairs and floor, we sat down to begin her reading.
The first layout produced a look of sad acknowledgement from my client, for it showed her husband of twenty years had strayed. She wanted to know what to do, could I tell her something about the "other woman," give her a description, and was her marriage in jeopardy.
I heard once that a psychic is considered a "ten-cent psychiatrist." How true. I said, "I cannot give you advice, any choices to be made must be your own, and I can only present the facts as I see them." However, I related to her that the "other woman" was young, dark haired, divorced, and somewhat unstable. I told her the latter might be in her favor, and perhaps the situation would be temporary.
It was my usual format that at the conclusion of a reading conversation would begin in which I would attempt to cheer people up, even when the reading appeared to be a life disaster. This could be weird, since sometimes it was like I was saying, "you're going to die, but it's heavenly where you're going." She departed and I thought of her as my "rejected-wife client."
A few days passed and I received a call from a man requesting a reading. He sounded distraught, said he had heard of me, and begged me to give him a reading. I explained that I rarely read for men, as they usually tend to be such skeptics, and are often sarcastically hostile. He assured me he was not a skeptic, and would be very open minded. The meeting was set.
I marked my calendar with only a first name, and a time, for I never asked for last names. This would prevent any prospective client from thinking that I "researched" my psychic reading material, as is often assumed by the public.
He arrived at the appointed time and date. He was an attractive, white-haired man of perhaps 50, very pleasant, and I was immediately relieved of my previous apprehensions.
The cards clearly stated that he was being unfaithful to his wife of many years, and that he was involved with a younger woman. As I gave him the description of his girlfriend, I had an intense feeling of deja vu. This description sounded very familiar. I began, "The woman is dark haired, dark eyed, rather insecure and looks to you as a father image." He grimaced. This was obviously a blow to his middle-aged ego. He considered it true love and was sure that age had no part in it. He said the usual things; his wife didn't understand him, they had out-grown each another, etc., etc. I nodded understandingly. These statements are common, but quite genuinely accepted when one is rationalizing behavior and dealing with internal guilt. He asked for advice.
"I cannot give you advice, any choices to be made must be your own, and I can only present the facts as I see them." As I said this, I began mentally summing up the number of times I'd used those same words. Maybe I should have made out little business cards with those words in large, bold print, or recorded them on a tape that would begin to play the moment they sat down at my kitchen table.
He left, impressed by what had been revealed. But I felt he was no closer to any of the answers he sought. Well gee, after all, I'm only a humble psychic earning a living. I'm not God!
A few days later, I got another reading request from a rather skitterish-sounding young woman. She'd never been to a psychic before and wondered if I was going to turn out the lights and chant by candlelight. "No" I assured her, "I will not, and neither do I wear long flowing robes, long beads, dangling bracelets or use a crystal ball." Why do they always expect that?
Once more I name and date my appointment on the calendar. My calendar was the type with large boxes in which I recorded not only my reading appointments, but birth dates, trips to the doctor, any significant events in my life, social dates, mood changes, and my menstrual cycle. It suddenly struck me as I wrote in the appointment that my whole life was spread before me on accumulated calendars, and badly scrawled as it usually was, a robber could easily case me out by reading my calendar. But old habits die hard. I still keep calendars...my books of life.
She arrived on time. She was attractive, perhaps in her late 20's or early 30's. She had dark hair, and large, black doe-eyes, that darted to all parts of my kitchen as though she were expecting spirits to leap out of the woodwork. Actually, only one ghost occupied my house, but he stayed upstairs most of the time. Even if he did appear, he behaved admirably during my readings. Occasionally he blew out the light bulbs or fluttered the curtains for effect, but I was always able to explain these things rationally to nervous clients. I don't have to tell them everything, right?
Her reading showed her to be involved with a married man who was much older than she and that she was drawn to him because of his quiet authority and understanding nature. Shades of the father image again. She felt she loved him and wanted to marry him, but she felt guilty about breaking up his marriage. She asked for advice. I gave her my spiel. I did warn her though that more lives than her own were at stake. Hang dogged and dissatisfied, she left. Why did I keep having this deja vu sensation? Oh well.
The next week at the office, a coworker entered and sat down to join me. She was very agitated over something. Dumb me, with my psychiatrist's curiosity, I asked her what was wrong.
"Oh, I am so mad!" she blurted. "Mom went to some local psychic who confirmed what she's suspected for a long time, that Dad is cheating on her. I don't know who that psychic is, but I'd like to wring her neck!" My neck suddenly had a strange tightening sensation. "Well," I began, "sometimes it is good to know the truth so you can act upon it. After all, the psychic did not seek her out, it was your mother who sought out the psychic." She looked at me curiously. "I've heard you sometimes give card readings. Is that true?" I am decidedly nervous now. "Well, yes, but you know I have to do it to supplement my income." She nodded. "Oh I am not putting you down, it's just that I would trust you. Could I send my mother to you for a reading?" My neck was getting stiffer by the minute. "Sure, here's my phone number. Have her call after 5:30."
She called. She asked if her daughter knew who I was. I told her that I had remained silent on that fact. She was relieved. I assured her that I consider a reading to be a personal encounter, that I always respect people's privacy, and that I had only listened to what her daughter said. She made a new appointment, for she felt her situation had worsened.
A few days later she sat at my kitchen table again. The tea kettle was screaming and spattering water on the stove. My cookies were burning in the oven. I hate to cook. She didn't mind. She hadn't come for culinary advice. I never give that kind either. I wouldn't know how.
Her situation had indeed worsened. Her husband had asked her for a divorce. In the middle of the reading, amid choked sobs, there was a knock at my door. I dried my tears and went to answer it. I am a pathetic empath.
I went to the little room which passed for a living room, that adjoined my kitchen, and opened the door to...yup, you got it...the white haired unfaithful husband and his adoring, wide-eyed "other woman." They apologized for arriving unannounced, but said they were in the neighborhood and decided to just drop in. Terrific.
In the meantime, my client had entered the room with my son, who wanted to show her the new fishy Mommy got him for his aquarium.
Imagine how it might feel if you were standing in a puddle of water, unable to move as a live exposed electrical line is falling toward you. The silence was deafening. Even more deafening was the din that commenced as all three found their tongues. Oh boy!
My poor little, 100-year old house, which over the years had already begun to lean decidedly to the right, was now quaking. I was positive that the cracks in the ceiling would soon be slabs of plaster avalanching upon us all. Where was my ghost when I needed him? A little darkness could have been most beneficial a moment or so before.
At the top of my lungs I screamed...HOLD IT!!! Three faces, contorted in half-formed obscenities, became as grotesque as characters from Dante's Inferno. More calmly now, I stated, "This is my house, such as it is, and I realize that you three have a problem to work out, but kindly do it elsewhere." My son watched the goings on with much delight. Kids can be cruel.
A round of apologies began, and then they left, their argument resuming as they headed for their vehicles. As quiet tranquility settled once more upon my humble abode, I looked up and lamented, "Hey God! Did I do a no no here? I mean, give me a sign!"
A moment later a loud clap of thunder from a cloudless sky
shook my house. Looking back on it now, I think there was a
message there somewhere.
He lived there 100 years ago and then he died. From what I heard from neighbors, he died in a big chair in the living room. Ok, so I sympathize.
Maybe he was unhappy because of the girl who fell out of the upstairs bedroom window while he lived there. He may have been the one who pushed her. Well hey, she isn't haunting the house now is she? No...but he is. Do I have to pay for his guilt trip?
It's a matter of control. He is a ghost, neither here nor there, and he had the house once, and died, and the house got sold...to me. Well, if he were alive, would he have the right to come back and walk around slamming doors and opening windows in the middle of winter? Or what about the time he ripped out the water pipes and flooded the basement, or when he shut off the furnace and all my goldfish froze in the aquarium. If he were a live person and did that, I could call the police and get him for breaking and entering. Just cause he's dead, he is taking advantage of the situation.
What recourse did I have? I had to call a ghost buster to come out with his fancy dancy machines, and a medium who showed up with candles that nearly set the house afire, and incense that stunk up the place. Is that fair? Once I even called in a minister who ran around throwing oil all over my doorways and window sills and then told me he also had to drive out the demon from me. Like hey...the ghost was not in me for Pete's sake, he was in the house, but even so that minister clouted ME in the head a few times shouting, "Satan begone!" Give me a break, this is just a run of the mill ghost, not the BIG GUY! I'm not "that" important.
But do you see my point here? I mean I'm the only one who can even see him, and believe me, he's no Clark Gable in his bib overalls and plaid woolen shirt over a pot belly. And those eyes! They're full of anger and what did I ever do to him?
I think I'm being unfairly treated. So, it's not like I can sue him or anything. I've tried to reason with him and he just laughs at me. I asked him to at least give me one night of quiet sleep, but did he even consider my feelings even once? Uh uh...he stomped around all night overturning things and making those dreadful moans.
You know what he did once? My nephew came to visit and he dumped him right out of his bed. Okay, so I had told him I wouldn't have a lot of house guests, but family is family.
Anyway, that's my dilemma. I keep trying, but the truth of it is, I haven't a ghost of a chance of winning.
What follows is a history of events that occurred because of that miserable ghost...sheesh!
I was divorced with one small son, and together we lived in a tiny, 100-year old house that leaned decidedly to the North. Because of that, it was a downhill walk into my kitchen, and I had my stove propped up with a 2 x 4 to prevent eggs from sliding off my grill. There were so many ceiling cracks I used to wonder how long it would be before most of it would be on the floor. But I loved that house, even when I first moved in and had to do major repair work to every nook and cranny. It was mine though and I didn't have to share it with anyone but my son. So I thought!
I found out very soon that I was sharing it with someone else, and he was more irritating than my X-husband. The very first night locked windows opened by themselves (in the middle of winter) and the water faucets turned on. That same night, after I put my son to sleep in my bed, I sat on the couch, moonlight pouring in the window, relaxed but musing on those strange occurrences. Then I got distinct impressions of a presence in the room...a presence which was not in a good mood.
I sat up slowly as a foggy glow appeared in the dim light and I saw an elderly man, paunchy, wearing bib overalls and also wearing a very nasty look on his face, eyes burning with anger, and pointing to my door. His words mouthed...GET OUT! I shook my head defiantly saying "No, this is my home now, I won't go!" He disappeared and no further messages were delivered to me that night.
The next day, when I got home from work, my house was freezing cold. The furnace had quit working and a cup of water in my sink was frozen solid. I groaned. I didn't have the money for a furnace repair, but knew I had to do it. That night my son and I slept on the floor by my electric stove, the oven turned on for warmth, and I called out in my mind, "I am not leaving!"
The next day was a Friday and a repair man fixed the furnace saying it appeared to have been tampered with, but was working fine now. I went to bed satisfied. The next morning I awoke to the sound of pipes knocking and water gushing. I ran to the cellar door, down the rickety old stairs to the dirt basement, and saw it was flooded with about 3 feet of water with more gushing in from the main water line outside the house. I sloshed around, turned the cut off valve, shook the water from my feet, went back upstairs, called a plumber, and once more silently declared, "I am not leaving!"
For a while negative activity ceased. However, now that I was settled in, I had begun doing my readings again, (a must with all the repair bills to pay) and a new client was due.
She was there on a dare and certainly didn't believe I could tell her anything about her future. I asked her if she believed in ghosts. She didn't believe in anything paranormal, especially ghosts. Poppycock, wild imaginings. I chuckled. She sat down and I laid my cards on the table, then "wham" the kitchen window flew open, hitting the top window frame. She stared dumbfounded. I chuckled again and told her my ghostly roommate did it. She didn't believe me. I asked her, "how does a window go up? Going down can be explained by gravity, but up?" "Coincidence" she said, "maybe a sonic boom caused it to happen." Okay, I continued with the reading. The table began to shake and I just held on to my coffee cup to keep it from sloshing. Another sonic boom? We weren't even near an airport. She was getting a bit nervous.
I ask her, "if all my lights suddenly went out, would you believe a ghost did it?" She just stared at me. I said, "okay, now's your chance, go for it." All the lights went out, then on, then out, then on, and then out totally. I heard a ruckus in the dark kitchen as I felt my way to the cupboard for some candles. After a few moments I heard a door slam. The lights came back on. The woman was gone, her money scattered across the table, and I laughed and laughed...and then I heard him laughing too.
We struck up a deal that night. I stood there staring into an
empty kitchen, but feeling his presence listening. I had two rooms
upstairs which I used only for storage and had closed off to
conserve on my heating bills. I told him he could have those rooms
to himself, and we could share this humble abode, and he was
welcome to sit in on my readings whenever he liked, as long as he
didn't get too rambunctious. I saw the curtains move that I had put
over the doorway to the narrow staircase, and heard footsteps going
up the stairs. I figured that was a yes. He often came down while
I was doing readings, I could always feel him there, and he behaved
admirably except for a couple of times when someone dared to go up
to his chambers...but that's another story. Still with me? Stay tuned for Part 2
She said the house had been a rental for years, no one ever stayed for more than 2 or 3 months, and some left within the first week. She smiled at me. "Is he bothering you too?" I told her my ghost story and she found it all very amusing, but was intrigued with the idea the ghost and I were now peacefully co-habitating.
She then told me that several years prior, an elderly couple had owned and lived in the house. The wife died first in the upstairs bedroom, and the husband, a cantankerous old farmer lived on for several years, until one day he was found dead in the basement of the house. The house had then been sold through probate and had been a rental ever since. Interesting, since in my vision I had seen a man dressed like an old farmer, and I certainly knew he could be cantankerous.
I returned to my house and walked up the stairs to the upper rooms. I stood there talking into the empty air. I told him I had heard about his wife, about him, that I knew he must have been very lonely when he was here in those last years, and that I was happy we had come to be friends. As I turned to walk down the stairs, the overhead light bulb blinked on an off. I smiled.
In the meantime, the lady who had been scared right out the door had told a ghost buster about my haunting and I got a phone call from him. He wanted very much to check it out. I told him I didn't think it was a good idea because I had a deal with the old guy with terms of non aggression, and non intervention. He was very insistent but I kept saying no.
Some people can't take no for an answer, and the man and his female cohort appeared on my doorstep the next day. I told them they would have to suffer the consequences of their impetuosity by going up to those rooms, but go ahead, and I take no responsibility for what happens. They just snickered.
State of the art ghost busting equipment in tow they ascended the stairs. The overhead light immediately began to flick on and off and the rugs on the staircase suddenly buckled and they nearly came tumbling down like Jack and Jill. I just stared up at them from the bottom of the stairs smiling. As they reached the top, the light not only went out, the bulb burst in a shower of broken glass all over them. I went to my cupboard and got a new bulb for them. I was beginning to enjoy this too much to let it all stop now. I got the feeling "he" was having his fun too. I tossed the bulb up to them and the guy tried to put it in and the bulb flew out of his hand bursting in the air. They pulled out flashlights, determined to get into those rooms. They wouldn't work. They groped around in the darkness trying to set everything up at the top of the stairs, but somehow (sonic boom maybe) the equipment came tumbling down. Then they came down too, shaken, amazed, and requesting permission to return during the day time. I said no. This was it. They had their chance, now begone...evil trespassers. They left. I went up the stairs with a new bulb, screwed it in, and said, "good show!" The light blinked a few times, stayed on till I descended the stairs and then went out.
My ghost remained steadfast in his privacy though, but...there
was one more incident...stay tuned for Part 3.
One day my nephew, (who had once lived with me before I got divorced) home from Air Force Boot Camp, came to stay a few days with me. I only had 3 rooms in my downstairs part of the house, plus a tiny bathroom, one closet, 3 cats, 1 dog, a few fish and lots of plants. I told him I would sleep in my little boy's room and he could sleep on the couch where I usually slept. He asked why; his old twin bed was in the upstairs rooms, he could just set it up to sleep there, and didn't mind the cold. I told him about the ghost. He said since the ghost seemed to be my friend now, he was sure the old guy wouldn't mind a temporary visitor. I just smiled.
That night, I curled up with my 6 year old son in his little bed for intuition told me I should. During the night I heard a pounding noise which shook the overhead ceiling, but I figured my nephew and the ghost were getting to know one another. After a while I heard a very loud "bang!" followed by a "thud!" I waited, and then there was silence, so I rolled over and went back to sleep.
The next morning as I walked into the kitchen, I heard snoring coming from the living room. I peeked in and there was my nephew, all scrunched up on the loveseat with my afghan wrapped around him. Must have been some night in that haunted tower.
When the coffee was made, my nephew staggered into the kitchen, looking tired, and worn with eyes big as saucers. I smiled. "Sleep well?" I asked.
"That is no ghost you have up there!" he said, "that is a demon!" I laughed. "What did the demon do?" I asked. He sat down, gulped some coffee and began his ghost story.
"First I tried to talk to him, to tell him who I was and that I'd be gone in a few days. Then I made up the bed, and climbed into it. I was just dozing off when the bed started bouncing around. I sat up and held on. When it stopped, I tried to get back to sleep, but then the whole bed lifted 3 feet, then WHAM it slammed onto the floor. I wanted to get the hell out of there then, but I was scared to move, so I just waited. Then the bed lifted again, only this time that damn ghost tipped the bed over and dumped me right onto the floor. That's when I got the hell out of there. I didn't even have time to grab my pillow and I nearly fell down the stairs getting out of there."
Well, being the nice aunt that I am, I didn't want to say "I
told you so" but what the hell, I said, "I told you so!" For the
remainder of his visit, he slept on the couch and all remained
peaceful and serene in the haunted upper rooms.
After a few Sundays, I noticed the minister was staring at me, and I had this feeling of "uh oh" and after the service, he made a point of blocking my egress from the church, saying he just knew he had to talk to me. I was wary. I was tiring of running around the church chasing Satan out. Why did it have to be done every Sunday? And why did Satan keep returning anyway? Maybe Satan likes to jog? Well, the minister was convinced Satan kept returning because I was there, and needed to be saved.
I sat down with him and his wife and told him my stories about doing readings, and my ghostly roommate. He was horrified! Uh oh. He decided an exorcism was surely in order. But first, he had to cast the devil out of me, and then we'd go after the ghost. He sat me down, prayed over me, and slapped me in the forehead with his Bible so many times I was seeing stars. When I nearly keeled over, he shouted "alleluia, the devil has been removed." I was sure glad because this whole thing was giving me a terrific headache.
The next Sunday, he arrived at my haunted house with his Bible, special oils, and after running around my house yelling "Satan beware, we shall cast ye out" he came inside. He proceeded to splash all my portals with his oils, reading lines from the Bible and praying over the doorways, and with each annointing I had to say, "I send thee back" and then he'd slap his Bible over the doorway. It's a wonder his Bible was not battered to shreds with all the use it got. He then made me gather all my metaphysical books and my tarot cards into a heap. We took them outside and dug a hole in the yard. He prayed over them some more. Then we threw them in the pit and set them afire. My nephew should have been there to see that...he was fascinated by fire.
When we returned inside the house, all was quiet. I kept
waiting for the ghost to make an appearance. He didn't. I never
have been sure if we really exorcised him or if he just decided I
was too weird for him now and went to some other happy haunting
ground. I never heard from him again. Pity.
In the early 70’s, my first husband, I and our 4 year old son were on a road trip traveling southward along the Eastern seaboard. When we reached Saint Augustine, Florida, we decided to tour an Old Fort there.
The Castillo de San Marcos, built 1672-1695, served primarily as an outpost of the Spanish Empire, guarding St. Augustine, the first permanent European settlement in the continental United States. The fort also protected the sea route for treasure ships returning to Spain
I recall it was a warm summer day. I have fond memories of that trip, such as the astonishment on my little boy’s face after seeing a cannon for the first time. Even at 4 he was mechanically inclined so he immediately began studying the cannon from top to bottom. Finally he turned, ran to me, grabbed my hand and said, “Mommy, come look at the shooter car.”
Ok, back to my original story. Around that time, my husband rejoined us after checking out another area. I told him about Jon’s “shooter car” and he laughed with that proud dad twinkle in his eye. He took Jon by the hand back to the cannon to explain it to him. Meanwhile, I was drawn to another area.
I was drawn to a “parapet”. There were several along the walls of the upper level, but this one, facing the seacoast exerted a magnetic pull on me. As I entered the rounded structure, I felt a slight dizziness, as my eyes were drawn to a slit in the wall. I assumed it was the opening through which soldiers could shoot an oncoming enemy. As I moved closer, in this quasi light headed state, I became aware of a soldier cowering in the fetal position on the stone floor, tears rolling down his face, his body wrapped around his rifle. I felt extreme compassion for the terrified young soldier. I looked through the slot in the stone wall, and I saw a red-uniformed army, storming up the walls of the fort.
At that point, everything went black. Suddenly there was a “pop” sound and I was still standing in the parapet, but the vision had vanished. I have no doubt that frightened young soldier once lived and maybe even died at Castillo de San Marcos.
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