Chapter One
Where it all began.
This chapter serves to explain the origins of my abilities and shed light on the moments when they first surfaced. During my early years, I was too young to grasp the significance of these occurrences, so this chapter delves into the experiences of my family members, who were the first to witness and recognise the unique nature of my abilities.
It was 1997, and I was three years old when my family started questioning if I had some sort of psychic ability, especially my fifty-year-old grandma. My parents owned a pub at the time, and I often found myself at my grandmother’s house, nestled within a historic mill estate. Her home, a social housing bungalow, stood as a testament to the building’s storied past.
The structure itself was a grand old building, fashioned from sturdy red bricks that had weathered the years with grace. Its imposing presence commanded attention, standing as a remnant of the once-thriving cotton mill that had dominated the landscape in the early 1800s. The hard, red bricks formed walls that held echoes of the industrial era, bearing witness to the toil and sweat of countless workers who had contributed to the mill’s operation.
Surrounding the bungalow were beautiful gardens, lovingly tended by the residents of the sheltered housing estate. Vibrant blooms spilt forth from well-maintained flower beds, adding splashes of colour to the landscape. Majestic trees stretched their branches toward the heavens, providing shade and an air of tranquillity. The harmonious blend of nature’s serenity and the building’s imposing facade created a unique atmosphere, one that seemed to harbour secrets and tales of a bygone era.
When my grandma first moved into that house, she encountered unexplainable experiences that sent shivers down her spine. Night after night, as she lay in bed, strange occurrences disrupted her peace. The bed would suddenly vibrate as if an invisible force were walking into it, during the day she would hear the distant hum of her sewing machine but whenever she hurriedly checked, the sound suddenly stopped, leaving her bewildered and unsettled. As if adding to the mystery, the bathroom light would intermittently flicker, casting eerie shadows and heightening her sense of unease during her relaxing baths.
Amongst these unsettling incidents, one particular night remains etched in my grandma’s memory. It was a typical night, where we found comfort in the company of late-night television, both of us being night owls who struggled to sleep when the day felt too young. I shared her bed since the spare room had been converted into a crafts room for her sewing projects. While I have no recollection of this event, my grandma vividly recounts the story to this day.
As we settled into bed, the familiar vibrations permeated the room, causing my grandma to retreat under the covers, shutting her eyes tight, wishing for it all to end. But I, sitting upright in bed, fixated my gaze upon a corner of the room. In my innocent curiosity, I turned to my grandma and innocently inquired about the man standing at the foot of the bed. I wondered why he wore an apron in the dead of night, as it was far too late for baking. With sadness etched on his face, the man intrigued me, and without hesitation, I assured him that everything would be all right.
Fearing what she might see, my grandma dared not glance at the mysterious figure. Instead, she urged me to implore the man to leave, which I dutifully did. With a conviction that belied my tender age, I firmly instructed the stranger to go away. Astonishingly, from that night onward, the man never returned, and the unnerving vibrations that plagued my grandma’s bed ceased entirely.
As an adult who has encountered numerous such experiences, I find myself burdened with a sense of guilt. It has become apparent to me that my grandma’s nightly visitor meant no harm. He was not a malevolent spirit; rather, he seemed lost, searching for something unseen to us. Regrettably, my grandma has since moved from that house, leaving me unable to assist him. Consequently, he may remain trapped in a state of limbo, suspended between this world and the next.
Curiously, I wonder if he prefers or even desires this state of existence. Our societal expectations often lead us to believe that when someone passes on, they naturally seek to progress to the next stage of being, whatever it may be. However, we must remember that spirits were once living beings, just like you and me. They possess their preferences and inclinations, yearning to exercise their autonomy. At times, they genuinely wish to remain here, among their loved ones or in a place that brings them solace.
Believe me when I say that attempting to force a spirit into action against its will is a futile endeavour, except perhaps with the aid of religious instruments. They possess a will and agency that cannot be easily manipulated. We must respect their autonomy, acknowledging their desires and decisions as we would with any living being.
My encounters have taught me humility, prompting me to reconsider my role and responsibilities regarding these entities. While I may not possess the means to assist the spirit who once stood at the foot of my grandma’s bed, I decided to approach such encounters with compassion and an open mind, understanding that spirits, too, have their own journey to navigate and I can only advice and try and advocate the correct route for these spirits. This of course came later in life.
Another tale that my grandma fondly recounts is the story of my imaginary friend, Timothy. When I was just three years old, I would often speak about Timmy, insisting that my grandmother set the table for him, prepare a meal, and even give up her seat so that Timmy could sit with us. My grandma, believing that I possessed a special gift, indulged my requests and treated Timmy with kindness and respect. My mother, on the other hand, humoured me but held the belief that it was merely a product of an active child’s imagination. My father, however, didn’t share the same enthusiasm and discouraged anyone from entertaining my interactions with Timmy, often reprimanding me for my supposed fanciful notions.
As time went on, much to my father’s relief, I gradually stopped mentioning Timothy altogether. It seemed that I had forgotten about him entirely, and whether Timmy was indeed a spiritual presence or simply a figment of my young imagination remains a mystery.
Reflecting upon this story, it’s intriguing to consider the different perspectives within my family. My grandmother embraced the idea of a spiritual connection, viewing it as a gift from a higher power. My mother, though sceptical, recognised the importance of nurturing my creativity and imagination. Meanwhile, my father, perhaps driven by his own reservations or concerns, dismissed the notion entirely.
In the end, whether Timothy was a spirit or a creation of my own mind, his brief presence in my life holds a special place in my heart, serving as a reminder of the wonder and mystery that can be found in the realm of the unseen. It encourages me to approach life with an open mind, embracing the beauty of imagination and the limitless possibilities that lie beyond the boundaries of what we can comprehend.
The stories from my childhood remain scarce, for one particularly terrifying incident cast a shadow over our family. It was an event that sent ripples through our lives, prompting my father to enforce a strict prohibition on any discussion of ghosts or spirits. Even the mere mention of God became a difficult subject, which posed a challenge for my deeply religious grandmother, who believed that my abilities were bestowed upon me as a divine gift. Nevertheless, after that incident, we learned to tread cautiously around my father, refraining from broaching such sensitive topics.
Although I have no personal recollection of the incident, my grandmother recounted the chilling tale to me years later, after my father had passed away. The year was still 1997, and on this rare occasion, my parents’ pub remained closed for maintenance work. As our living quarters resided above the pub, my mother put me down for a nap and left me to drift into slumber. However, something ominous lurked in the shadows, disrupting the tranquillity of that afternoon.
Abruptly, I awoke in a state of distress. My screams echoed through the room, drawing my father’s immediate attention. Concerned and eager to comfort me, he rushed to my side, anxiously inquiring about the cause of my distress. Trembling, I revealed the horrifying details: a tall, dark figure intent on tearing me apart, mirroring the fate he had inflicted upon other girls. The details were far too horrific for a three-year-old’s imagination and truly I believed he would whisk me away to some dreadful place and cause me harm.
My father, desperate to assuage my fears, reassured me that it was merely a bad dream, emphasising that no man could harm me or take me away. However, as he calmed me down, he noticed a distinct scratch mark horizontally across my neck. The presence of this inexplicable mark only added to the unsettling nature of the situation, raising questions that lingered unanswered.
Upon reflection and driven by a desire to uncover the truth behind the disturbing encounter, I embarked on an investigation into the history of the pub. Hoping to shed light on the malevolent presence that had infiltrated my dreams, I delved into its past. Yet, despite my efforts, my search leads to no significant findings. The pub’s history seemed unremarkable, devoid of any notable incidents or connections to the haunting figure that had threatened to snatch me away all those years ago.
In the absence of concrete evidence, I can only surmise that this unsettling individual was but a troubled soul, burdened by a tumultuous past. Whether his threats held any genuine weight or were mere projections of his own darkness, we may never know. It remains an unresolved fragment of my past that lingers in the realm of the unknown.
Remarkably, my path and he never intersected again. Perhaps he was merely passing through, a fleeting presence sent to evoke a profound sense of fear within me.
After that unsettling incident, my grandmother revealed that my father was burdened by his own encounter and In a moment of vulnerability, he confided in her, recounting the eerie details of our shared experience. As he entered the room, an undeniable chill permeated the air, extinguishing the warmth of positive emotions he had once felt. It was as if all the joy had dissipated, replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread and sorrow. The oppressive weight of these emotions engulfed him, leaving him feeling emotionally drained and physically ill.
In the presence of spirits, such experiences are not uncommon. Without the confines of a physical body, spirits are able to share and influence human emotion. They possess the ability to manipulate and influence the environment, manifesting their thoughts and emotions in ways that can profoundly impact those who encounter them. Emotions, stripped of physicality, resonate with a heightened intensity, evoking profound sensations that extend beyond our conventional understanding.
My grandmother, driven by her deep religious beliefs, offered a suggestion to my father in the wake of his encounter. She proposed that he might have come face-to-face with a malevolent entity, a demon capable of inflicting harm upon our family. Urging him to seek the guidance of the church without delay, she hoped to safeguard us from any potential danger.
The incident shattered my father’s perception of reality, leaving an indelible mark on his psyche. The overwhelming intrusion of intense, otherworldly emotions had shaken him to the core. As a result, he made the decision to sell the pub, uprooting our lives and relocating to a place where the memories of that haunting encounter would hopefully fade. In an effort to protect us, my father imposed strict rules, forbidding any discussion of paranormal experiences, unexplained events, or anything he deemed inappropriate. He had become consumed by fear, convinced that acknowledging the existence of the supernatural would only invite further torment.
Growing up in this stifling environment, I developed a sense of shame regarding my own abilities and the stories of spirits that held a sacred place within my heart. The weight of my father’s fear kept me silent, suppressing the very essence of who I was. However, with his passing, newfound courage stirred within me. I realised that I had a responsibility to share my experiences and the stories of those who had traversed the veil of existence.
While I have never aspired to embrace the occupation of a psychic, aware of the many gifted individuals who possess far greater skill in that realm than I do, I am compelled to chronicle my journey into the unseen. It is not a path I actively seek, but rather one that has unfolded before me, shaping my understanding of the extraordinary nature of our world. My intention in writing this book is to honour and shed light on the spirits and entities that surround us.
I hope that by sharing these stories, I can reassure individuals who have had similar interactions that they are not alone. In addition, I hope to promote a greater understanding of the complex web of life and the strong bonds we have with those who have passed away. Beyond the physical realm, our life is entangled with the spiritual in ways we may never fully understand.
This story serves as a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, a celebration of our capacity to confront the unknown and find meaning amidst the shadows. It is an invitation to embrace the mysteries that lie beyond our perception, to honour our own unique experiences, and to remember that within the vastness of the unseen, there is a tapestry of stories waiting to be shared.