Stalking Shadows (3 page)

In retrospect, I wonder what would have happened to Sam and Zack if there wasn’t a psychic medium present to assist in the situation.

I suppose through a series of electronic voice phenomena, or EVP, sessions it would be possible for an experienced paranormal investigation team to figure out what was going on, but that process could be lengthy, time consuming, and in some cases, unsuccessful.

While I understand many people don’t necessarily believe in psychic mediums—and many ghost hunting teams don’t use them or use them sparingly because they may believe a psychic medium takes away from the legitimacy of the team—I can’t stress enough how sometimes using a psychic medium in an investigation can be efficient and, in some circumstances, more productive than not.

Many people who are experiencing paranormal activity in their homes or places of business don’t have any idea how to find a reputable psychic medium to help them with their problem. The best advice I can give on that topic is to find a trustworthy paranormal investigation team in your area, and ask them if they use psychic mediums as one of the tools in their arsenal when conducting an investigation of a possible haunting.

If you do this, don’t be afraid to ask for references, and please check out every reference they give you. If a paranormal investigation team will not give you references, then find another team.

Now before I get hate mail from paranormal teams who don’t release references due to client confidentiality, I get it, but at the end of a successful investigation, you should ask your client if you can use them as a reference for any potential clients—and get their approval in writing.

The most important thing to remember about this story is that sometimes not everything is as it appears when a ghost, spirit, or other type of entity is present. Every ghost, every spirit, every case is unique and different in its own way. Take nothing at face value.

[contents]

Chapter 2

Nathanial

Sometimes children have imaginary friends, and sometimes their friends are not so imaginary—they’re spirits. It’s not unusual for children to see ghosts and spirits more than many adults do, because children are more open to their environment than adults are.

As people get older, unless they are psychic, they learn to filter out certain things, which pretty soon becomes second nature, and they become closed off to things they are told are impossible or don’t exist. Children, especially small children, haven’t learned how to do this, so they are more accepting of everything around them—even if that something is a ghost.

Unless a child is frightened by a ghost or spirit, they will accept them for who and what they are as a natural part of life, which spirits are.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your individual point of view, I was born a psychic medium and, until the age of seven, assumed everybody could see ghosts. I couldn’t have been more wrong, but that’s another story.

I met Nathanial when I was at the tender age of five. He lived on the second floor of my great-aunt’s house, which contained two bedrooms and deep, winding closets that I was convinced held mysterious, wonderful things. Since my great-aunt only occupied the first floor of the house, the second floor was used mainly for storing long-forgotten antiques, books, furniture, and other items generally reserved for an attic. It was the perfect place for a ghost—and a curious child.

My parents were out of town for the weekend so, as usual, I was left with Great-Aunt Tote, a wonderful woman whom I loved as much as life itself. She laid down to take a nap, after making me promise I wouldn’t leave the house, which left me free to explore the second floor.

I made my way up the steep staircase and turned the corner at the landing to walk down the hallway. On my right was a huge bedroom that held boxes of books, furniture, and scads of other items just begging for me to investigate them.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I was eagerly emptying out a box when I felt someone enter the room. I looked up and saw the figure of a young man, not any older than eighteen, dressed in old-fashioned britches, suspenders, and a billowy white shirt. His dark hair was shaggy and mussed, and his keen eyes darted around the room nervously. In retrospect, I realize that he looked like someone out of the television show
Little House on the Prairie
. Yet, something seemed off about this man—something was not quite right. I could see through him into the hallway!

“Who are you?” I asked, looking at him with childlike wonder.

“I’m Nathanial,” he answered. Yet he didn’t speak the words, they just popped into my head.

“Hi, Nathanial, you’re a ghost,” I said as a matter of fact. I was so used to seeing ghosts practically everywhere I went and sometimes had a hard time distinguishing the living from the dead, but the fact that this spirit was so close to me that I could see through him left me with no doubt about what he was.

Ghosts never scared me, so the presence of another one did nothing to rattle my five-year-old nerves. I have to admit though, that because this was the first time a ghost communicated with me, I was thrilled.

“Yes. But please don’t be afraid of me. I’m so lonely,” Nathanial pleaded.

“I’m not scared of you,” I assured him. “I get kind of lonely, too. We can be friends!”

And so began several years of a unique friendship. When I was at my great-aunt’s house, I spent countless hours in the attic with Nathanial. He’d watch me while I colored, played, and explored the treasures hidden in the rooms. We shared secrets, like most children do, but mostly we kept each other company. I told him about what I’d done that week in school or with my friends, and he always listened with rapt attention.

Time marched on, and as I got older my trips to the second floor became less frequent. Eventually my great-aunt died and my dad sold her house. Even though I was no longer able to talk to Nathanial, I thought about him often throughout the years, and I missed him horribly.

About two months before I got married, the people who bought my great-aunt’s house called my dad and said they were divorcing, and they asked if he would like to buy the house back.

My dad jumped at the chance, and then sold it to my husband and me for a paltry sum. I couldn’t believe my good fortune! I’d be reunited with Nathanial. I’d learned so much about ghosts over the years and now knew that Nathanial belonged in the light, and I had to figure out a way to cross him over to the other side. No matter what, I had to help my first best friend and confidant.

Having Nathanial and two other ghostly occupants complicated things a bit, because I needed to explain to my husband exactly what I was and what I could do. While I’d told him about my abilities when we were dating, I doubt he believed me or took me seriously, but this time he was going to have to—he didn’t have any other choice.

I did, however, take the time to go up to the second floor and reacquaint myself with Nathanial. Just as I did when I was a child, I crept up the stairs to the second floor. As I turned the corner to walk down the stairway, I was immediately engulfed by a white mist and what felt like arms wrapping tightly around my body.

“I’m happy to see you, too, Nathanial,” I laughed. “Please let me go so we can talk.”

The white mist backed away from me and materialized into the Nathanial I remembered. It was then that I realized that Nathanial was mentally challenged. I had a cousin who was mentally challenged and recognized the oversized head, clumsy movements, and other symptoms of the disability. Nathanial cringed when he realized I knew about his disability.

“Now that you know, you won’t talk to me anymore,” he said telepathically, with profound resignation.

“That’s not true. You’re my friend and that’s all that matters,” I said. “When did you die?” I settled myself cross-legged on the floor of the hallway.

“1853, I think,” he responded tentatively.

“I don’t remember anyone in our family history who had your illness, with the exception of my cousin. Are you a member of my family?” I asked.

“No. I came to this house a long time ago,” Nathanial answered, and drifted off into the bedroom to the right of me.

I got up off the floor and followed him. He moved toward the tall, narrow window in the room that looked out the side of the house.

“I used to live over there,” Nathanial said.

“Over where?” I asked, joining him at the window.

“On the corner. They destroyed my house to put up another building. I didn’t like it there so I came here because the attic was empty,” he answered.

“Where the gas station is?” I asked, knowing it was the only building not original to the area at the time Nathanial would have been alive.

“I guess.”

“Nathanial, this isn’t an attic. It’s the second floor to a house. This room is a bedroom. Why do you think it’s an attic?” I said.

“My family was afraid and ashamed of me because I was sick, so when we had company, or they didn’t want to deal with me, they made me go up to the attic so no one would see me,” Nathanial said sadly.

“I’m sorry they did that to you,” I said, knowing that what he experienced was customary at the time. “So why haven’t you gone into the light and crossed over?”

“Everyone laughed at me and made fun of me when I was alive. It was terrible. I just don’t want to go through that anymore. That’s why I came here. No one could see me and I wouldn’t be laughed at. When you were a little girl you never made me feel different. I’m happy here, now that you’re back,” Nathanial answered.

“I understand, but if you go into the light, you will be healed. No one will laugh at you anymore, and you can see your family again,” I said.

“I don’t want to see my family,” he said, his energy filled with anger. “I can’t talk to you anymore right now.” With that he faded away and I felt his energy was no longer in the room with me. Disappointed, I made my way back down the stairs to the first floor.

I knew from experience that Nathanial wouldn’t leave the second floor. The farthest he ever came was to the bottom of the stairway; he would wrap his fingers around the edge of the wall and peek around the corner to see what was going on in the rest of the house.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. I became pregnant and gave birth to my son, and then twenty-two months later to my daughter. Nathanial, while still ever-
present, refused to go into the light and quite frankly I was too busy with my children to spend a lot of time trying to convince him it was in his own best interest to do so.

As my son got older and learned how to talk, I’d hear him in his bedroom, which is the same room on the second floor that Nathanial hung out in, talking to someone.

“Who are you talking to?” I asked one night after hearing him having a conversation in his bedroom. I sat down on the edge of my son’s bed.

“The man, Mommy. He hides when you come up here because he thinks you’re going to be mad,” my son told me, his dark brown eyes looking earnestly into mine.

“His name’s Nathanial,” I told my son. “I used to play with him when I was a little girl.”

“You did?” His eyes grew wide.

“Yes, and I won’t be mad. He doesn’t have to disappear when I come up here,” I assured him.

“Is he a ghost?” my son asked.

“Yes, he is. But he’s a good ghost and won’t hurt you,” I said.

“Like Casper?”

“Yes,” I laughed. “Just like Casper. Now go to sleep.”

I tucked my son into bed and walked slowly down the stairs to the first floor. I have to admit I was a little shaken and proud that my son inherited my gift and could see spirits and wasn’t afraid of them. But I also knew that I would have to start to teach him the difference between a good ghost and a bad ghost.

With a heavy sigh I sat down on the couch in the living room to think. It’s hard enough to be a child without having the added burden of being able to see and talk to the dead. I had to figure out a way to help my child understand the spirit world and accept his gift.

One weekend, my husband decided to hang shelves in my son’s room to hold his ever-growing collection of toys and treasures. I told him not to hang the shelves on the wall by the window, because that’s where Nathanial liked to stand and gaze out at the place his house used to occupy.

My husband, an engineer who does not entirely believe in my abilities, of course ignored my pleas and hung the shelves with molly bolts right next to Nathanial’s window, and made my son climb the shelves, much against my protestations, to make sure they were strong and sturdy.

_____

A week later my husband and I took the children camping. Upon arriving home late Sunday afternoon, my son raced up the stairs to his bedroom.

“Mom! Come up here!” he cried.

Hearing the fear in his voice, I ran up the stairs and into his bedroom. There I found that the shelves had been ripped from the wall, molly bolts and all, leaving gaping holes in the drywall. It was apparent that the shelves had been thrown violently across the room, leaving the toys scattered everywhere.

I called my husband upstairs and he stood open-mouthed, gaping at the destruction.

“I told you not to hang the shelves there,” I said, as I started to pick up the toys and pile them in one of the corners of the bedroom.