Selective Scare-dy Cat
So, in the previous post, I mentioned that I was generally unafraid of out-of-the-ordinary events.
Today, I'm thinking about the fact that I've seen objects levitate, balls of light, apparitions, ghosts; and, daily, I have ghosts in my dreams, ghosts asking for help, precognitions, premonitions of catastrophes, and accurate feelings of foreboding.
Through the years, I've seen a key melt in the lock of an intensely hot door on the other side of which there was no fire and no heat. I've watched a hanging plant swing back and forth so violently that I thought the hook would be yanked out of the ceiling (no wind, no windows, nobody home). I've had a ghost wake me up and thereby save me and my husband from being burnt in a fire. I've held a remote control while a television flipped through channels on its own. I've tried to shut off a television that came on by itself only to discover that it was in the 'off' position. Ditto a wall-switch-operated ceiling fan. I've even had banging on the walls, and footsteps on the stairs, that was so loud that nobody in the house could sleep.
These are only a few of the events of I've experienced. Clearly, I'm no stranger to the 'paranormal'.
Yet, I still need Scully to stay in the same room with me if I'm watching a frightening movie! That's right. I couldn't watch The Sixth Sense without dear Mr. Ghostiegurl himself being there holding my hand all those years ago. He was recently there beside me -- reading -- while I watched The Uninvited and I STILL had nightmares. And just a few moments ago, I aborted a solo attempt to watch another scary film . . .
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Friday, May 08, 2009
Freaky Friday I
The basement was the worst part of our old house. It was old; the stone sweated. The floors were cold and bare and the only time we used this part of the house was to do laundry.
Personally, if I needed to get clothes, I would run down, race to the dryer, and get back upstairs as quickly as I could.
My sister -- six years younger than I -- had a different attitude. While she found it a creepy place, her friends wanted to play there and she ended up spending a lot more time in the basement than I ever would.
(When we first moved in, as I've explained, there were many paranormal events. I remember, especially in the early years, that my stepfather and mother would wake us up with their conversations. They heard loud, heavy footsteps starting at the bottom of the stairs and going all the way to the top, just outside the master bedroom. I heard them, too, but, more often than this, I heard my parents talking about the sound.)
One night, I woke up because -- two floors beneath! -- I heard sounds coming from the basement. It sounded like heavy wood hitting concrete or stone. As my parents and I sat and listened, we heard chop, chop, chopping sounds followed immediately by a hollow-sounding thud (wood on stone). This happened over and over and over.
My mother and I ventured -- on tiptoes, for some reason -- down to the kitchen and approached the basement entrance. The sounds stopped. This happened several times.
When I look back, I shake my head and I think how fortunate I am that other people experienced these events at the same time as I did . . .
The basement was the worst part of our old house. It was old; the stone sweated. The floors were cold and bare and the only time we used this part of the house was to do laundry.
Personally, if I needed to get clothes, I would run down, race to the dryer, and get back upstairs as quickly as I could.
My sister -- six years younger than I -- had a different attitude. While she found it a creepy place, her friends wanted to play there and she ended up spending a lot more time in the basement than I ever would.
(When we first moved in, as I've explained, there were many paranormal events. I remember, especially in the early years, that my stepfather and mother would wake us up with their conversations. They heard loud, heavy footsteps starting at the bottom of the stairs and going all the way to the top, just outside the master bedroom. I heard them, too, but, more often than this, I heard my parents talking about the sound.)
One night, I woke up because -- two floors beneath! -- I heard sounds coming from the basement. It sounded like heavy wood hitting concrete or stone. As my parents and I sat and listened, we heard chop, chop, chopping sounds followed immediately by a hollow-sounding thud (wood on stone). This happened over and over and over.
My mother and I ventured -- on tiptoes, for some reason -- down to the kitchen and approached the basement entrance. The sounds stopped. This happened several times.
When I look back, I shake my head and I think how fortunate I am that other people experienced these events at the same time as I did . . .
Sunday, May 03, 2009
I grew up with 'em . . .
We gave my younger daughter a very large, wooden, Victorian-style dollhouse. It's as tall as she is. The girls love it.
It reminds me of our old family home. We knew the house was haunted -- all of us -- the day that we moved in. At first, we heard footsteps that would wake us all up in the middle of the night. Eventually, it transpired that each of us heard the patter, and the laughter, of children on the front porch and on the stairs in the foyer. Over time, we were able to put names to the, er, faces via the city's registry.
Anyway, the most striking aspect of the children's presence was that it could be heard -- at exactly the same volume -- no matter where a person was in the house. It could even be heard above the din of televisions and stereos.
I heard running, as did the others, and the incredibly faint strains of "Ring Around the Roses."
Frankly, I was still more than a little frightened by the idea of disclosing my experiences to the rest of the family even though we all knew that the others knew about the running on the porch.
One shadowy afternoon, my mother was napping in her room and I was in mine. I heard her call me.
"Yeh, Mum?"
"Will you turn off the TV for me?" My mother didn't open her eyes.
"Oh, you don't want it on anymore?"
"I didn't want it on in the first place. It just came on again." This had been going on since my grandmother had died a few weeks before.
As I was talking to her and turning off the television, I asked her if she'd heard anyone.
"You mean the children singing?"
"Yes!" I was excited. I was relieved. This was good. "What song do YOU hear?"
"Ring Around the Roses."
My sister had heard it, too. And so began the dialogue that, for so many years, nurtured my intuition and perception.
We gave my younger daughter a very large, wooden, Victorian-style dollhouse. It's as tall as she is. The girls love it.
It reminds me of our old family home. We knew the house was haunted -- all of us -- the day that we moved in. At first, we heard footsteps that would wake us all up in the middle of the night. Eventually, it transpired that each of us heard the patter, and the laughter, of children on the front porch and on the stairs in the foyer. Over time, we were able to put names to the, er, faces via the city's registry.
Anyway, the most striking aspect of the children's presence was that it could be heard -- at exactly the same volume -- no matter where a person was in the house. It could even be heard above the din of televisions and stereos.
I heard running, as did the others, and the incredibly faint strains of "Ring Around the Roses."
Frankly, I was still more than a little frightened by the idea of disclosing my experiences to the rest of the family even though we all knew that the others knew about the running on the porch.
One shadowy afternoon, my mother was napping in her room and I was in mine. I heard her call me.
"Yeh, Mum?"
"Will you turn off the TV for me?" My mother didn't open her eyes.
"Oh, you don't want it on anymore?"
"I didn't want it on in the first place. It just came on again." This had been going on since my grandmother had died a few weeks before.
As I was talking to her and turning off the television, I asked her if she'd heard anyone.
"You mean the children singing?"
"Yes!" I was excited. I was relieved. This was good. "What song do YOU hear?"
"Ring Around the Roses."
My sister had heard it, too. And so began the dialogue that, for so many years, nurtured my intuition and perception.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Reaping
I came up with a description of my status: I'm now a professional 'psychic on leave of absence', though I can still be convinced to give a reading every now and then. I still hear from regular clients who like to give me updates, tell me they look forward to my returning to work. A local group asked me if they could keep me in mind for future investigations (some televised, some not) and I agreed.
Anyway, I decided to watch a movie while reaping the benefits of cardiovascular exercise. At the gym, I sat transfixed as The Reaping played on my Treo. It made going to resistance level 8 for four minutes, three times a lot easier; it made me work harder during the four four-minute "rest" intervals.
I didn't get to finish it. The pre-programmed weightloss workout (if you're not doing the math) is only 28 minutes long. I'm hoping to finish it at the next two gym sessions!
What do I think about it? It's definitely creepy. Gabriel Byrne is always worth watching. I'm not religious but I often find myself watching scary movies with religious themes (think: The Omen, The Exorcist) and really enjoying them. I can't say much about The Reaping because I haven't seen much.
Carrying on the theme of psychic kids:
As a child -- about the age of Gigi -- I had a knack for always knowing where anything was located within the house. My mother would say, "Have you seen this ----?" and I have one particular memory of opening a bottom cupboard in the kitchen and reaching around behind the pipes to show my mother where an object was. She found the frequency of this kind of event peculiar.
My sister -- whose abilities are more dream-oriented than outright intuition -- complained often about playing games with me, especially the card game, Go Fish. I always "just knew" what she had as a hand. She STILL talks about it from time to time as being a particular point of frustration while we were growing up.
As far as empathy goes, as a child, I would walk past people and get overwhelmed with an emotion of some great intensity, as if it was just washing over me and I could barely stand up under the pressure or weight of it. The hardest emotion, of course, being sorrow or grief. It wasn't easy and I would really dread having to walk past people at a very young age!
So many psychic things happened to me as a child; would I have wanted to "go public" with it on a show such as Psychic Kids? I doubt it. I doubt that my mother, as open-minded as she is about such things, would have allowed it.
Gigi always knows who is calling and often tells us who is coming by. As you probably already know, she's been talking about ghosts since she started talking! After much thought, I realize that I would not allow her or my other child to participate in such a show.
At any rate, if you, dear readers, would like me to post about something in particular, please feel free to ask as I work harder to keep this blog updated more frequently. Otherwise, I'll just keep rambling on as usual . . .
I came up with a description of my status: I'm now a professional 'psychic on leave of absence', though I can still be convinced to give a reading every now and then. I still hear from regular clients who like to give me updates, tell me they look forward to my returning to work. A local group asked me if they could keep me in mind for future investigations (some televised, some not) and I agreed.
Anyway, I decided to watch a movie while reaping the benefits of cardiovascular exercise. At the gym, I sat transfixed as The Reaping played on my Treo. It made going to resistance level 8 for four minutes, three times a lot easier; it made me work harder during the four four-minute "rest" intervals.
I didn't get to finish it. The pre-programmed weightloss workout (if you're not doing the math) is only 28 minutes long. I'm hoping to finish it at the next two gym sessions!
What do I think about it? It's definitely creepy. Gabriel Byrne is always worth watching. I'm not religious but I often find myself watching scary movies with religious themes (think: The Omen, The Exorcist) and really enjoying them. I can't say much about The Reaping because I haven't seen much.
Carrying on the theme of psychic kids:
As a child -- about the age of Gigi -- I had a knack for always knowing where anything was located within the house. My mother would say, "Have you seen this ----?" and I have one particular memory of opening a bottom cupboard in the kitchen and reaching around behind the pipes to show my mother where an object was. She found the frequency of this kind of event peculiar.
My sister -- whose abilities are more dream-oriented than outright intuition -- complained often about playing games with me, especially the card game, Go Fish. I always "just knew" what she had as a hand. She STILL talks about it from time to time as being a particular point of frustration while we were growing up.
As far as empathy goes, as a child, I would walk past people and get overwhelmed with an emotion of some great intensity, as if it was just washing over me and I could barely stand up under the pressure or weight of it. The hardest emotion, of course, being sorrow or grief. It wasn't easy and I would really dread having to walk past people at a very young age!
So many psychic things happened to me as a child; would I have wanted to "go public" with it on a show such as Psychic Kids? I doubt it. I doubt that my mother, as open-minded as she is about such things, would have allowed it.
Gigi always knows who is calling and often tells us who is coming by. As you probably already know, she's been talking about ghosts since she started talking! After much thought, I realize that I would not allow her or my other child to participate in such a show.
At any rate, if you, dear readers, would like me to post about something in particular, please feel free to ask as I work harder to keep this blog updated more frequently. Otherwise, I'll just keep rambling on as usual . . .
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Ghost Stories
Things have been so quiet, lately. Even my dreams are pretty mundane. I can't seem to watch TV and I always have my nose in a book or magazine. In my spare time, I'm writing or reading and this isn't to say that I've had a lot of spare time.
The "channelling" experience happens more and more to me, too often to write everything down. I don't always pay much attention to it, either. Like so much of my experience in this regard, it has become commonplace.
I remember a fascination with the paranormal while growing up that manifested itself in a desire to read everything that I could. I see now that it was an attempt to understand what was going on. I needed to know that others experienced the same!
When you grow up watching fans having been turned on (while the switch remains in the 'off' position), hearing ghost children running up the stairs and singing, and having ghosts tap you on the head, it's bound to make you feel different from most people. Thankfully, once I discovered that all of my family were experiencing the very same things and once we experienced them at the same time, I felt better.
Until about five or six years ago, I collected every work of nonfiction that I could find on the subject of ghosts. I couldn't help it. I still have so many that I've yet to read. I even collected in the area of fiction. Once I accepted who I was, however, my fascination just kind of ended and I could get on with just being myself. So, devoting so much energy to collecting and reading in this area was really all about finding myself. I guess we all do it differently.
Anyway, as I browsed through a second-hand store on Tuesday, I came across a collection of the ghost stories of Charles Dickens. This time, as I took a book to the checkout counter, I realized that I was buying it because I like the genre.
The Complete Ghost Stories of Charles Dickens
Edited: Peter Haining
Hardcover
Franklin Watts (1983)
Things have been so quiet, lately. Even my dreams are pretty mundane. I can't seem to watch TV and I always have my nose in a book or magazine. In my spare time, I'm writing or reading and this isn't to say that I've had a lot of spare time.
The "channelling" experience happens more and more to me, too often to write everything down. I don't always pay much attention to it, either. Like so much of my experience in this regard, it has become commonplace.
I remember a fascination with the paranormal while growing up that manifested itself in a desire to read everything that I could. I see now that it was an attempt to understand what was going on. I needed to know that others experienced the same!
When you grow up watching fans having been turned on (while the switch remains in the 'off' position), hearing ghost children running up the stairs and singing, and having ghosts tap you on the head, it's bound to make you feel different from most people. Thankfully, once I discovered that all of my family were experiencing the very same things and once we experienced them at the same time, I felt better.
Until about five or six years ago, I collected every work of nonfiction that I could find on the subject of ghosts. I couldn't help it. I still have so many that I've yet to read. I even collected in the area of fiction. Once I accepted who I was, however, my fascination just kind of ended and I could get on with just being myself. So, devoting so much energy to collecting and reading in this area was really all about finding myself. I guess we all do it differently.
Anyway, as I browsed through a second-hand store on Tuesday, I came across a collection of the ghost stories of Charles Dickens. This time, as I took a book to the checkout counter, I realized that I was buying it because I like the genre.
The Complete Ghost Stories of Charles Dickens
Edited: Peter Haining
Hardcover
Franklin Watts (1983)
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Out and About . . . Ghosts
It has been a long time since my post. Yikes! Times goes by too quickly.
Yesterday, I only had a few readings but they were great. I really enjoyed them.
Ellen Potter's Olivia Kidney and The Exit Academy arrived, finally, last week and I'm trying to find the time to read. I don't have any spare time especially since the weather started warming up this week.
We spent two days at the park last week. So, things like cleaning and laundry really were ignored. We couldn't help it, however, because once she realized how warm it was outdoors, my little girl wanted to go to the park.
There has also been a lot of garden/yard work: raking up leaves, etc. Watching everything come back to life is my favourite part of the spring season. This weekend, we turn the clocks ahead one hour. It's already very light outside at 6:00 p.m. but I can't wait until the skies darken around 9:30 or so.
There's a ghost who sits on the end of my living room sofa recently: a young man in his twenties with light brown hair. He's not there all the time but I've noticed him a couple of times.
It reminds of when I was a little girl. We lived in a townhouse complex and one of my neighbours was a family with two children. The mother fascinated me. She told me often about the ghost of her father in her car and she spoke most frequently about the ghosts around her home.
Seeing the ghost on the sofa reminds me of one of her stories. She told me that she was sitting on her couch one evening, sewing, when the ghost of a woman came down her stairs and sat down ibeside her. Apparently, she, the ghost, stayed there for a very long time. My ghost doesn't sit down; he is already there, on the sofa, across from me. (It's a sectional.)
I was only nine years old. I was friends with this woman's daughter -- whose other child was my sister's age -- but I spent more time in conversation with her than I did playing with her daughter. I loved her because she was so honest about her experiences: She didn't avoid conversation about it, she promoted it.
I'll always remember the story of the smoke detector. One evening, without obvious cause, their smoke detector on the top floor sounded. Thinking there was a fire, they went to investigate. When they were unable to find any reason that it should have sounded, my neighbour's husband grabbed a stepstool, trying to shut it off, and it did not stop. So, finally, he removed the circular top, took the batteries out, replaced the top. That evening, the alarm sounded again. This time, however, it held no batteries!
It has been a long time since my post. Yikes! Times goes by too quickly.
Yesterday, I only had a few readings but they were great. I really enjoyed them.
Ellen Potter's Olivia Kidney and The Exit Academy arrived, finally, last week and I'm trying to find the time to read. I don't have any spare time especially since the weather started warming up this week.
We spent two days at the park last week. So, things like cleaning and laundry really were ignored. We couldn't help it, however, because once she realized how warm it was outdoors, my little girl wanted to go to the park.
There has also been a lot of garden/yard work: raking up leaves, etc. Watching everything come back to life is my favourite part of the spring season. This weekend, we turn the clocks ahead one hour. It's already very light outside at 6:00 p.m. but I can't wait until the skies darken around 9:30 or so.
There's a ghost who sits on the end of my living room sofa recently: a young man in his twenties with light brown hair. He's not there all the time but I've noticed him a couple of times.
It reminds of when I was a little girl. We lived in a townhouse complex and one of my neighbours was a family with two children. The mother fascinated me. She told me often about the ghost of her father in her car and she spoke most frequently about the ghosts around her home.
Seeing the ghost on the sofa reminds me of one of her stories. She told me that she was sitting on her couch one evening, sewing, when the ghost of a woman came down her stairs and sat down ibeside her. Apparently, she, the ghost, stayed there for a very long time. My ghost doesn't sit down; he is already there, on the sofa, across from me. (It's a sectional.)
I was only nine years old. I was friends with this woman's daughter -- whose other child was my sister's age -- but I spent more time in conversation with her than I did playing with her daughter. I loved her because she was so honest about her experiences: She didn't avoid conversation about it, she promoted it.
I'll always remember the story of the smoke detector. One evening, without obvious cause, their smoke detector on the top floor sounded. Thinking there was a fire, they went to investigate. When they were unable to find any reason that it should have sounded, my neighbour's husband grabbed a stepstool, trying to shut it off, and it did not stop. So, finally, he removed the circular top, took the batteries out, replaced the top. That evening, the alarm sounded again. This time, however, it held no batteries!
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