To quote one of my favorite song lyrics: "Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start" The Sound of Music and the Song "These Are a Few Of My Favorite Thing's" are true favorites of mine. One of my personal favorite things is being a storyteller. Let me weave a true but ghostly tale for you. It also happens to be the very beginning of my paranormal journey.
I grew up in an old dilapidated farmhouse in the Midwestern state of Ohio, USA. Fairfield County was a farming community and our family lived upon a small corner of a larger working dairy farm owned by my father's employer. Our home was well over 150 years old. Over the years, the original footprint of the home was changed to suit a growing family, a top floor and extra rooms were eventually added on to make a small three-bedroom home.
My room was the only bedroom on the lower level. A set of stairs that lead up to the second floor could only be accessed via my sleeping quarters, The space under the stairwell had been converted into a very small wardrobe. Being in the vicinity of the closet gave me the creeps. Sometimes, just looking at the entryway into the small dank and musty smelling place made me physically ill with nausea and a severe headache. To be truthful, I hated that space. Aside from the closet being cramped and dark it had a weird funky vibe. Just opening the door made me feel as if I was invading someone else's space. I got the feeling that I was not supposed to be in that closet. It did not seem to bother my little brother or my mother so, I assumed that there was something wrong with me. Was it merely my imagination? It took time and a lot of personal growth to understand what I was witnessing and why only my mom and a few close friends, saw the same thing. It was quite common to make use of the small spaces underneath of stairwells. My closet was built directly under the very stairs that accessed the second floor. I did my best to avoid that space as much as possible If I needed to go upstairs I could not simply walk up the steps. I had to run. I truly felt like something or someone was trying to chase me or grab me as I mounted those stairs. Avoiding that space was next to impossible, so, I climbed them as fast as I could run. The closet was very narrow and deep. As space grew smaller the cealing height began to shrink. as you walked into the little space way back in the very narrowest part of the wardrobe there was a little cubby with a sliding door that had been placed there and you could stash a small box or tote inside of the cubicle. The top formed a small step or bench, though the only person that could sit on it was a tiny child. I used it as a shoe holder.
My mother should have called my name insomnia, seriously I usually awoke after a few hours of sleep. I would toss and turn or just laid as still as possible until the morning light dawned and I could escape that dreaded room. Since I woke up every night about the same time I was able to witness the horrifying event, sometimes I would wait for the dawn so that I could fall back to sleep without fear of the dark shadows and all things that go "bump" in the night My bed sat on the opposite wall of the closet. No matter where I slept in that bed my eyesight, always fell to the closet door. That space was where my small well-worn wardrobe hung. I'll never forget the happenings that took place in that room. Almost every night between 1:00 A.M. and 4:00 A.M. almost on cue, my closet dor would slowly creep open. I could hear it creak as it slowly started to swing. The door had a small bolt type latch on the outside of the door. I always had checked it before I climbed into bed, yet, somehow, my closet door still managed to open all by itself. If you happened to find yourself locked inside the closet there was no latch to open it. It was nearly impossible for a child my size to open it without a lot of force. Frankly a grown man would have to kick as hard as he could to open that closet. Doing that would have destroyed the latch.
A few minutes before the nightly main event I would feel panicky inside. My skin would get all goose-pimply. Sometimes my goosebumps would have goosebumps. My head would feel fuzzy, and I would sink into my bed and pull my covers up so that that blanket would come just to my eye level. I think I thought if I hid under the blanket, maybe they wouldn't see me. Each night you could hear the door jingle, just slightly and then it would slowly open as if it was being pushed from the inside. Suddenly there would appear from the other side of the locked closet door, a mid-sized Native American woman. She would softly yet gingerly step out from the inner sanctum of my closet. Her expression never changed. It was as if she had walked this path a million times and she took no notice of me or anyone else in our house. Her hair hung in braids. She wore what looked like a leather dress with some type of leather shoes. On her back was a wrap or a backpack of some sort and inside was a small dark-headed child. Behind her walked a small boy with no shirt and a small girl dressed similarly to the older lady. The young girl hair was similar to the older woman and she too wore braids. I remained in my bed, frozen with fear. They looked grey and misty, as if looking into a black and white photo. I could see them as plain as I could see my mom. They carefully walked the short distance from the closet to the end of my bed and stood there for what seemed like an eternity, but was most likely only a few seconds. Once they arrived at the foot of my bed, they stopped and stared, as if they were staring right through me. I now know that they were the reason I disliked that wardrobe. I could always sense that it was their space, not mine.
My father never believed me, and I'm not sure but I don't think my younger brother believed me either. My mother who has long passed away actually believed the story. She confessed to seeing the same Native Spirit's that I had watched over many nights. . When I quizzed her about the visitors from the bedroom closet, my mother just shrugged it off. She explained that they would not hurt me and that I shouldn't be afraid of them. It took a very long time for me to get over the frightening feeling and the real physical sensation's that I felt when the spirit's made their appearance. Over time, I grew to understand that my newfound ability would be considered a "sixth sense": I was able to see and hear spirits that no one else could or would admit to. It took years for me to realize and accept that I was not crazy. I am empathic. I can sense and see not only the dead, but I can pick up on the feelings of the living. I'll save that for another story.
With time and the knowledge that my mom and I possesed the similar abilities, the fear eventually lifted. I began to understand that for me. This was a normal part of everyday life. Over the years I have come to understand that this gift was given to me by God. By allowing me to see beyond the veil between the living and the dead, I have been able to bring peace to those who are left behind when their beloved friends and family have crossed over to heaven. That is the true blessing. Not only am I an empath, but I am also intuitive. This gift is a double edge sword. It has takena lifetime learn how to use this precious talent with God's help and His Amazing Grace., I have gained a wealth of knowledge with each and every encounter.
Recently I went to dinner with my cousin Mel and my good friend Karen. I recalled that story and much to my surprise they both remembered it. Finally. Two witnesses besides myself who could remember the ghosts of the house on Pleasantville Road and the childhood encounter of long ago.
The cabin still stands to this day. It has changed ownership over the years. For the first 15 years of my life, I experienced the Spirit's that walked through my bedroom. The land and the cabin that sits on the property have changed ownership several times now. One of my older family members purchased the house and completely gutted the interior. They actually replicated the original cabin that lay beneath the old farmhouse. From my understanding, The Native Spirits no longer wander through the room. I've visited that home twice in the 38 years that have passed between the time I have lived there until now. I no longer sensed the small group that I once saw. Perhaps the process of correcting the home back to its original footprint helped to quiet the residual energy that roamed through that tiny abode.
I grew up in an old dilapidated farmhouse in the Midwestern state of Ohio, USA. Fairfield County was a farming community and our family lived upon a small corner of a larger working dairy farm owned by my father's employer. Our home was well over 150 years old. Over the years, the original footprint of the home was changed to suit a growing family, a top floor and extra rooms were eventually added on to make a small three-bedroom home.
My room was the only bedroom on the lower level. A set of stairs that lead up to the second floor could only be accessed via my sleeping quarters, The space under the stairwell had been converted into a very small wardrobe. Being in the vicinity of the closet gave me the creeps. Sometimes, just looking at the entryway into the small dank and musty smelling place made me physically ill with nausea and a severe headache. To be truthful, I hated that space. Aside from the closet being cramped and dark it had a weird funky vibe. Just opening the door made me feel as if I was invading someone else's space. I got the feeling that I was not supposed to be in that closet. It did not seem to bother my little brother or my mother so, I assumed that there was something wrong with me. Was it merely my imagination? It took time and a lot of personal growth to understand what I was witnessing and why only my mom and a few close friends, saw the same thing. It was quite common to make use of the small spaces underneath of stairwells. My closet was built directly under the very stairs that accessed the second floor. I did my best to avoid that space as much as possible If I needed to go upstairs I could not simply walk up the steps. I had to run. I truly felt like something or someone was trying to chase me or grab me as I mounted those stairs. Avoiding that space was next to impossible, so, I climbed them as fast as I could run. The closet was very narrow and deep. As space grew smaller the cealing height began to shrink. as you walked into the little space way back in the very narrowest part of the wardrobe there was a little cubby with a sliding door that had been placed there and you could stash a small box or tote inside of the cubicle. The top formed a small step or bench, though the only person that could sit on it was a tiny child. I used it as a shoe holder.
My mother should have called my name insomnia, seriously I usually awoke after a few hours of sleep. I would toss and turn or just laid as still as possible until the morning light dawned and I could escape that dreaded room. Since I woke up every night about the same time I was able to witness the horrifying event, sometimes I would wait for the dawn so that I could fall back to sleep without fear of the dark shadows and all things that go "bump" in the night My bed sat on the opposite wall of the closet. No matter where I slept in that bed my eyesight, always fell to the closet door. That space was where my small well-worn wardrobe hung. I'll never forget the happenings that took place in that room. Almost every night between 1:00 A.M. and 4:00 A.M. almost on cue, my closet dor would slowly creep open. I could hear it creak as it slowly started to swing. The door had a small bolt type latch on the outside of the door. I always had checked it before I climbed into bed, yet, somehow, my closet door still managed to open all by itself. If you happened to find yourself locked inside the closet there was no latch to open it. It was nearly impossible for a child my size to open it without a lot of force. Frankly a grown man would have to kick as hard as he could to open that closet. Doing that would have destroyed the latch.
A few minutes before the nightly main event I would feel panicky inside. My skin would get all goose-pimply. Sometimes my goosebumps would have goosebumps. My head would feel fuzzy, and I would sink into my bed and pull my covers up so that that blanket would come just to my eye level. I think I thought if I hid under the blanket, maybe they wouldn't see me. Each night you could hear the door jingle, just slightly and then it would slowly open as if it was being pushed from the inside. Suddenly there would appear from the other side of the locked closet door, a mid-sized Native American woman. She would softly yet gingerly step out from the inner sanctum of my closet. Her expression never changed. It was as if she had walked this path a million times and she took no notice of me or anyone else in our house. Her hair hung in braids. She wore what looked like a leather dress with some type of leather shoes. On her back was a wrap or a backpack of some sort and inside was a small dark-headed child. Behind her walked a small boy with no shirt and a small girl dressed similarly to the older lady. The young girl hair was similar to the older woman and she too wore braids. I remained in my bed, frozen with fear. They looked grey and misty, as if looking into a black and white photo. I could see them as plain as I could see my mom. They carefully walked the short distance from the closet to the end of my bed and stood there for what seemed like an eternity, but was most likely only a few seconds. Once they arrived at the foot of my bed, they stopped and stared, as if they were staring right through me. I now know that they were the reason I disliked that wardrobe. I could always sense that it was their space, not mine.
My father never believed me, and I'm not sure but I don't think my younger brother believed me either. My mother who has long passed away actually believed the story. She confessed to seeing the same Native Spirit's that I had watched over many nights. . When I quizzed her about the visitors from the bedroom closet, my mother just shrugged it off. She explained that they would not hurt me and that I shouldn't be afraid of them. It took a very long time for me to get over the frightening feeling and the real physical sensation's that I felt when the spirit's made their appearance. Over time, I grew to understand that my newfound ability would be considered a "sixth sense": I was able to see and hear spirits that no one else could or would admit to. It took years for me to realize and accept that I was not crazy. I am empathic. I can sense and see not only the dead, but I can pick up on the feelings of the living. I'll save that for another story.
With time and the knowledge that my mom and I possesed the similar abilities, the fear eventually lifted. I began to understand that for me. This was a normal part of everyday life. Over the years I have come to understand that this gift was given to me by God. By allowing me to see beyond the veil between the living and the dead, I have been able to bring peace to those who are left behind when their beloved friends and family have crossed over to heaven. That is the true blessing. Not only am I an empath, but I am also intuitive. This gift is a double edge sword. It has takena lifetime learn how to use this precious talent with God's help and His Amazing Grace., I have gained a wealth of knowledge with each and every encounter.
Recently I went to dinner with my cousin Mel and my good friend Karen. I recalled that story and much to my surprise they both remembered it. Finally. Two witnesses besides myself who could remember the ghosts of the house on Pleasantville Road and the childhood encounter of long ago.
The cabin still stands to this day. It has changed ownership over the years. For the first 15 years of my life, I experienced the Spirit's that walked through my bedroom. The land and the cabin that sits on the property have changed ownership several times now. One of my older family members purchased the house and completely gutted the interior. They actually replicated the original cabin that lay beneath the old farmhouse. From my understanding, The Native Spirits no longer wander through the room. I've visited that home twice in the 38 years that have passed between the time I have lived there until now. I no longer sensed the small group that I once saw. Perhaps the process of correcting the home back to its original footprint helped to quiet the residual energy that roamed through that tiny abode.
I hope you enjoyed this truthful spooky tale. Looking back I realize that those ghost gave me a tremendous gift. I received a glimpse into the lives of kindred spirits that I had never met. I was able to look into the past and truly see the footsteps of those who walked upon the land long, long ago.
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