Nobody Knows the Hauntings I’ve Seen 2…

Nobody Knows the Hauntings I’ve Seen…

Due to what must be a glowing ectoplasmic sign hanging over my head that says: “Ghosts & Spirits Check-in Here”, I’ve had to deal with hauntings and Spirits all of my life.

When you come in with Archangel Michael as a Guide, it means you are here to help heal the darkness in the world, as well as within yourself. It also means you are one of His Legions on the planet—a soldier in the trenches, as it were. Part of my job is helping to clear unwanted visitors by helping them to reach the Other Side. Unfortunately, I didn’t receive the training manual. I had to learn through experience.

It took a long time for me to understand that, as in the movie The Sixth Sense, when ghosts come knocking at your door, more often than not they are there for your help and trying to get your attention in the only way they know how.

I was fortunate in that the house in which I grew up wasn’t plagued with restless Spirits—unless you count my little brother and his practical jokes. But after the door between the Faery Realm and myself was closed, I slept peacefully in my bed until I was 15 and, like many curious teenagers, began to dabble in the paranormal.

My first run-in with an actual ghost came at an interesting time: my wedding night. It was wedding number one of three, and it was also my first foray into living outside the semi-protective walls of my childhood home.

My ex-husband and I had a taste for the kind of luxury that I had not experienced in my parents’ home. We had planned a five-star honeymoon, starting with two nights at the Sheraton Park Plaza hotel in New Haven, before jetting off to Acapulco’s Las Brisas Hotel.

After our Friday night wedding and reception, tired and happy, we checked into the Sheraton and were given room 1413.

I didn’t think of the significance of that number at the time, but most hotels don’t have a thirteenth floor due to superstition, and the Sheraton was no exception.  We were actually assigned room 1313.

We were both exhausted after our long day of ceremonies and celebrations, but, wedding nights being wedding nights, I primped in front of the bathroom mirror for nearly an hour, preparing myself for our first time as an officially married couple.

I slinked seductively into the bedroom, dressed in the white satin negligee that my older sister had gifted me with at my bridal shower; my hair and make-up perfect. Gliding up to the bed, expecting an enthusiastic reception, I found my beloved—snoring. Yup! Out like a light.

I couldn’t wake him for love nor money. I actually took pictures of him asleep in our hotel bed with my little Kodak 110 Instamatic film camera so that I could harass him at a later date in front of our friends. Hey, I looked perfect with my 1980’s BIG hair and sparkly eyelids, and there was nobody to appreciate it!

Since short of dumping the ice bucket over him, (which would not have been conducive to marital harmony or a comfortable night’s sleep) there was absolutely no way of waking him, I sighed and slid my bridal self into the bed and closed my eyes. After a full day of last-minute wedding preparations, as well as the exertion of the wedding and reception itself, I found myself in the arms of Morpheus pretty quickly.

Something woke me in the wee hours of the morning. I glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand: 4:13 AM. I had no idea why I would be awake at that ungodly hour—my first husband and I shared a passion for uninterrupted, deep sleep. I lifted my head to peer drowsily over our blanketed feet.

There, at the foot of my bed, stood a woman.

My first thought was, “Why is there a woman in my room?”

My second thought was, “Why is she transparent?”

I was wide awake in an instant, assessing the situation with whatever cognitive functions I had at that hour.

Then I realized that I could see the back of her—through the front of her—reflected in the large mirror over the long, low, hotel dresser that held the 19-inch color TV, as well as the bits and bobs my husband and I had left there throughout the evening.

She appeared to be an older woman in her 50’s, impeccably dressed in a bright red tailored suit, styled in the fashion of the early 1960’s. Her hair was coiffed in the bouffant style of that era, and it was obviously blonde-from-a bottle.

Her expensive jewelry glittered, and her lips were painted a wicked red that matched her fingernails. She exuded the appearance of affluence, but also of a woman trying hard to pretend the ravages of time had no impact on her.

I was transfixed, literally paralyzed, as with a quizzical look on her face, she raised her hand and crooked her index finger at me, raising it up and lowering it down in the universal symbol of “come here” or “follow me” that’s recognizable in any dimension—parallel or otherwise.

I couldn’t move; couldn’t even blink as I watched her continue to patiently motion me to follow. A moment later I realized that I wasn’t breathing, and as I released the gasp of terror I had been holding, my breath puffed out as a visible fog, as if I were outside on a December evening.

I tried to get my husband’s attention, saying his name in a terrified whisper, and then a bit louder. He never even moved his position. He was in a warm, safe bubble while I was outside in the wilderness facing down a banshee.

After the space of a few more frozen breaths, I was finally released from my paralyzed state, and did what any red-blooded Catholic would do: I pulled the covers over my head and began frantically reciting the Our Father and the
Hail Mary.

Several tense moments passed. I kept expecting to feel a hand grab my blanketed foot, or worse, a frigid touch on my exposed fingertips, which were white and bloodless due to the death grip I had on the blanket.

Then the atmosphere around me warmed and I chanced a peek over the top of my protective covers, searching the room, starting at the foot of the bed.

I let out a sigh of relief. She was gone, and I instantly fell asleep.

When I woke in the morning, I had no memory of my nighttime visitor, nor the terror I had felt. I teased my husband about his desertion of me on our wedding night, but only the part about his falling asleep on his negligee-clad, perfect-hair-and-make-up bride. I didn’t remember anything else.

As I mentioned earlier, we had two nights booked in room 1413 of the Sheraton Park Plaza Hotel, New Haven.

The following evening we hosted a large, boisterous party in our hotel room with a dozen of our closest friends. Saturday Night Live was on TV, and the booze was flowing freely. I was not much of a drinker. I never liked feeling out of control of my mental faculties so, after a couple of glasses of champagne I abstained for the rest of the evening, enjoying the sparkling wit of our friends more than the Brut.

By 2:00 a.m. everyone had left. (There may or may not have been a less-than-polite request from the front desk.) My husband and I settled into bed. We had a very early call for our flight to Acapulco, so once again we abstained from marital relations in favor of a few short hours of sleep.

Something woke me once more; exactly 4:13 a.m.—the same time as the previous night’s visitation. I peered over the tops of my feet to see the transparent woman-in-red staring at me.

This time she wasn’t looking at me quizzically. Something had changed. She was irate, whether at my lack of understanding or my lack of backbone, I’ll never know, because one look at her wildly gesticulating hands and thundercloud-brow had me immediately diving under my blankets, my lips forming the Catholic prayers of my childhood before the sheets even settled over my head.

I had learned enough in my years of flirting with unseen forces that you never follow any non-corporeal being when they ask you to follow, especially not into a mirror! Visions of my new husband waking to an empty bed, with no trace of his bride to be found did not appeal to my sense of fair play, and I had no intention of becoming yet another “Abducted by Aliens?” headline in the National Enquirier.

After several minutes with no ghostly ‘touchy-feely’, I peeked out of the faux safety of my blanket fortress and she was gone. This time I tried to wake my husband, but the ghost had more consciousness than he did!

I was shaking like a leaf, but still had enough awareness to be seriously irritated at the interruption to my slumbers, and after quickly eyeballing the room, I rolled over and fell asleep, once more completely forgetting about the nocturnal visits by the see-thru fashion-maven.

Not surprisingly, we overslept and had to scramble to make our flight, so this episode stayed buried in my subconscious, until one night, months later, when we hosted a dinner party and the talk at the table turned to ghost stories.

I don’t remember what was said to trigger the memory, but it all flooded back. Our friends joked at the time that it was probably an omen, and even though I don’t believe in the power of such things, our marriage did end seven years later.

I never did find out what this ghost was trying to tell me, but at the time I was probably better off not knowing.

Being a medium and a clairvoyant doesn’t come with a guidebook, but it does come with Guides. Sometimes, your Guides allow you to have certain experiences—not necessarily pleasant ones—as part of your training curriculum.

Much of my exposure to the Other Side at that point had been limited to a childlike appreciation of the Faery world, a kind of innocent enchantment (even if it held some aspects that were not so innocent). As a young woman, old enough to be married and venture out into the world, I was ready for a more advanced curriculum, and an introduction to the world of earthbound spirits.

I didn’t know then that it was a world in which I would spend much of my work and my life.