In the beginning...

I grew up a normal kid in a normal, middle-class family. My parents came from normal homes, had normal educations, normal jobs, and like all normal families, did their best to raise three normal kids. I spent my time climbing trees, playing tag, hide and seek, and occasionally a combination of the two which also incorporated a neighbor’s doorbell and a flaming bag of dog poop. (Hey, I said I was normal, not perfect). I listened to the same music and watched the same TV shows that all normal people did, drank the same soda and ate the same pizza. If I was asked to sum up my childhood in one word I would have to say it was “ordinary” because, as you're about to find out, I had to let go of “normal” a long time ago.

Today, I would still describe my life as ordinary. I’m a soccer mom, wife and housekeeper; a bookkeeper, chef and chauffeur. I have a loving (and exceptionally open minded husband) and three exceptional children (but doesn't every Mom say that?) My life, on a day to day basis, is fairly uneventful. I worry that I eat too much junk food and spend too little time working out. I do laundry, cook, clean and put my socks on one at a time. "I might be just like you. Except that ever since I was a little girl I knew I could talk to the dead ~ “earthbound spirits” as some people call them.

As a young child, I naturally assumed everyone saw what I did… the little girl standing in the corner by the bookshelf; the boy who sat on the sofa with me, giggling with delight over morning cartoons and occasionally reaching over to pet the cat (which always startled her clear out of the room!) Yet, whenever I discussed our little visitors with my parents, they would call me “imaginative” or “creative”; two words soon to be synonymous with “alone” in my mind, as it became painfully clear that I was the only one in my family who saw them. I tried to rationalize it, thinking that maybe they were something only kids could see, like the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny; but if that were the case, surely my brother and sister would see them too? How could they not? They were RIGHT THERE!

We come into this world with an unabashed sense of curiosity and an unbridled need to discover everything we possibly can in the short time we are given. As infants, we bravely venture forth, touching and tasting everything that crosses our path; dirt, broccoli, bugs, poisonous reptiles... Our parents teach us to be fearful in an effort to protect us from our own innate instinct to explore our surroundings. “Don’t touch the kettle – it’s hot. Don’t put that in your mouth - it’s dirty. Don’t pet dogs you don’t know - they might bite.” I guess no one ever said to me “Don’t play with dead people - they’re creepy” because I happily shared my home with my two special friends… a brother and sister, who explained to me (through thoughts rather than words), that they had perished in a house fire.

I’m sure they had names, (although I can no longer recall what they were), but I didn’t really need names; I could tell by their energy who was in the room at the time. The little girl had a sweet disposition, usually cheery and light, but the boy had a mean streak; prone to bouts of anger and hostility. When they were together their energies mixed, and at times became almost electric, (as is the case with all siblings I suspect). Most of the time they played happily together and at other times they would argue, just as every normal brother and sister would.

One afternoon I brought home a Valentine craft we had made at school; a small pillow in the shape of a heart. I’m sure it was supposed to be a gift for my mother, but I must’ve felt that I had done such an outstanding job on it that I couldn’t bring myself to give it to her, knowing that it would only float around the house until Easter when Mom would go down to the basement to retrieve our baskets and tuck it away in the box with all the macaroni and toothpick art she had been given over the years. I felt this pillow deserved better so I proudly hung it by a thread and thumbtack over my bed smack dab in the middle of my room, where it would be treasured and admired as my latest masterpiece. I loved how the pillow would react to their energy, slowly spinning in circles in response to the little girl, and swaying back and forth in response to the boy. It became routine for me to come into the room after school, throw my homework onto the desk, and glance up at the pillow to see who was there, waiting for me. Unfortunately, it wasn’t always a pleasant experience…

After another average day at school; I headed up to my room and stopped dead in my tracks. The pillow was spinning and swaying violently; so much so that it was hitting the ceiling, covering the red satin with chalky white marks and raining little bits of texture all over my bed. My initial reaction was one of logic; my Mom must have left the window open when she came in to make my bed. I was no more than about 4 steps into the room when I suddenly felt paralyzed, as if I had stepped in a pit of sticky tar and could not move my legs. My whole body felt heavy and as I struggled to regain control of my legs, I realized that the window was shut and the curtains were still. All that heavy, angry energy seemed to be coming from the pillow itself!

At this point a normal child would probably run screaming from the room, but since I wasn’t taught to have normal reactions to paranormal activity, I got mad (which, I believe, is still a perfectly normal reaction under the circumstances). I worked hard on that pillow after all, and they had ruined it. The seams were delicately glued together, not sewn, so washing all the chalky smudges off would be difficult, if not impossible (not to mention how I might go about explaining to my parents that, through no fault of my own, we were going to have to re-texture the ceiling).

I scanned the room, looking for my two little “culprits” and found them in the corner, seemingly oblivious to the path of destruction they had left in their wake. They appeared to be arguing, the boy roughly holding his little sister by the arm and pulling her, with great resistance, toward the window. Mentally I yelled at them to stop, and they turned and looked at me, almost as if seeing me for the first time. With a now captive audience, I dramatically jumped onto the bed and pulled my prized pillow down from the ceiling, all the while ranting about the damage they had done, and assertively explaining, under no uncertain terms, that if they were going to ruin my things, they were no longer welcome and would have to leave.

I’m sure that right about now, you are expecting a touching, tear-jerker of an ending; one where the Light streams in the room, everyone embraces one another and waves goodbye while choking back tears. C’mon people… get real. This isn’t a Hallmark movie of the week and I was just a kid for Pete's sake! I was choking back tears alright…as I headed to the bathroom and tried to salvage what was left of my prized pillow! When I came back to my room, all was quiet and my two little spooks were no where to be seen.

I never did see either of them again, although it wasn’t for a lack of trying. I pleaded, begged, bargained and apologized. I even tried bribing them by hanging the pillow back where it was and challenging them to make it move, but it was all in vain. Over the coming months the pillow remained motionless and I finally took it down, as the start of another school year began, and a sad but normal 11 year old girl went back to living her normal life. At least for the time being…