In the beginning…

I guess my first memory of spirit is when I was two. There was a man in my room. He seemed harmless, but was a tall, balding, thin old man that would come in my room near bedtime each night. Sometimes I would wake up and he would just be there. Even though I could see him clearly I knew he didn’t quite belong. I would go get my mom and beg her to stay and sleep with me. She never saw what I did, but sometimes would stay in my room to calm me back to sleep.

Many years later I would see a picture of my great-grandfather and the mystery of who was in my room each night was solved.

We moved to Spokane when I was three and things got crazier. We happened to live in a neighborhood with a great deal of negative activity. There was a house at the top of the street that a nasty old woman lived in. Funny enough I asked my parents about this house just a few weeks ago and they said it never existed; but I could see it plain as day. It must have been a house that was there before they built our neighborhood. She was not happy to have all the houses nearby and it wreaked havoc. Her negative energy drew in other negative energy.

It was at this house that I was chased to my room regularly by what I would call a demon. It was just a negative male spirit who would appear like a large black dog with red eyes and chase after me down the hall. I know that sounds crazy, but if there were a good sketch artist at hand I could still describe the form precisely.

This is also the house where I had my first dream that relayed to me how I had died in a past life. I watched my lifeless young body be thrown into a pit with other bodies. We were diseased and had to be disposed of after our death. We were all thrown into this pit without a marker. It was somewhere outside of Austria.

Not too long after that we moved to Colorado, I started kindergarten. The bus stop was at the top of our street and after my baby sister was born I often had to walk home by myself. A man with cowboy boots with spurs would often follow me home. He scared me because I didn’t recognize him and I asked him to stay further behind me and to please make the spurs quiet. He obliged like a good cowboy and continued to stay behind me for many many years. He followed me many places and didn’t like when I was left alone.

While all of this seemed normal to me a part of me knew not everyone; especially adults could see what I could see. Many of the kids around me could see things, too even though we didn’t discuss it. I did tell my BFF in kindergarten. But by first grade no other kid that I knew could see the things I could.

We were at recess one day when I turned to my friends and asked whose dad that was on the playground. There was a man in his forties watching the kids play. None of them saw who I was talking about, not one. That is when I decided it was time to stop talking about what I could see to anyone else.

It would be at least ten years before I spoke to anyone besides family about what I could see again.

And that is just the beginning,

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