It is time.
Actually, it is past time.
I’ve let it go on because I
didn’t want to face up to it,
and because it is infinitely
easier to try and hide from
it, than to face it. But I’ve
reached a point in my life
where I KNOW I need to figure
out a way to either change it,
or accept it. And it all
begins here, with the first
step of writing it down, and
admitting to something only me
and my husband know. My Grans
knew, and loved me just the
same as always until she
died. And I’ve had reason to
talk with my mom about it
every now and then, but she
just can’t understand, and I
don’t blame her.
All my life, I’ve been afraid
of the unknown. It is only in
recent years that I’ve been
able to start getting past it,
and be able to explore more of
my world, and what I want to
do, and who I want to be, and
how to move past the things
that frighten me.
After reading this, more than
likely, your opinion of me
will range from total nutcase
to liar. But, if you don’t
want to believe it as the
honest truth that it is, you
have my full blessings to PFFT!
it all off as pure hokum and
nonsense, or as simply the
long ramblings of a young,
crazy woman. Either way, I
don’t care; I simply feel the
need to put it all down into
words for once. I feel the
need to begin my quest for the
truth.
My first clear memory I have
of being able to feel things
was when I was 3. I know,
because “Hippi” was there.
Hippi was a big, blue
hippopotamus stuffed animal,
with a red, silk ribbon mouth,
that my most favorite grandma
in the world had made for me
for my 3rd
birthday. I was crazy about
that hippo, I still remember
to this day what he smelled
like--a combination of
slightly musty linen,
cigarette smoke (grans smoked
back then), and that
wonderfully indescribable
smell of “grandma’s house”.
Until I was 4 and got my first
“real” doll, Hippi was my
EVERYTHING (well, to a 3 year
old, lol) ---a stuffed animal,
a baby doll, a playmate, and
someone friendly to sleep with
at night, someone to keep me
safe.
I always slept with a light
on, a habit I’ve kept for most
of my 31 years. Sometimes my
room light, a lamp, or a
nightlight, but more often
than not, I’d leave on the
hallway or bathroom lights
with my door opened wide. I
can still remember clutching
onto Hippi (always on my right
side, because that was the
side closest the door), I can
remember the feel of the
sheets around me, and I
remember the hall light on,
and it shining through my open
door. But, what I remember
most, is just staring at that
door, and being afraid.
Afraid because I knew every
night, they would start their
search again, and they would
see me, and I was so afraid
that one of the times, they
might hurt me or take me away
from my mommy and daddy.
When I was young, I almost
always felt them around, but
during the day, when I played
and my mom there with me, it
never bugged me. But, at
night, when my brothers and I
were settled in for the night,
and mom and dad were asleep,
the house would get so quiet.
And it would start. More than
just the usual creaks of a
house “settling” at night,
more than the sound of
plumbing, or the sound of the
wind in the trees outside my
window. I would hear
whispers, almost sighs, but
more than hearing anything,
was the feeling. I always
knew when they were coming,
because I could FEEL it. And
my little arms would clutch
tighter around Hippi, my whole
body would begin to sweat in
fear, and my eyes would be
glued on that damn open door.
On a good night, meaning if
they were in particularly good
spirits, their coming and
going was very silent and
subtle. I could feel the
pause at my door, I could feel
the sudden chill in the air, I
could feel their quick glance
around my room, and then, not
finding whatever they were
looking for, they simply moved
on.
I always knew when it was
going to be a bad night. Even
before the house would start
creaking, I would feel the
strength of their anger. They
would be searching again, but
not in the careless way of
searching for a lost glove or
sock. This time, they were
angry and frantic, and full of
rage. I could feel their
hatred intensely, like a
heavy, wet blanket on me, and
I knew they were trying to
find someone, and that when
they did, they were going to
hurt them.
On those nights, I would
either start crying as loud as
my lungs would allow, just so
that my mom would come into
the room with me, or stay
there, with all the lights on,
until I fell asleep; or I
would run, as fast as my legs
would carry me for fear that
they would catch me otherwise,
from my room, down the hallway
into my mom and dad’s room,
and I would shut the door, and
get into bed with them. For
some reason, they never went
into my mom and dad’s room.
But I still shut the door
anyway.
When I was three, Hippi and I
decided to have a tea party
for all our friends. My room
was an unadulterated mess, so
I simply moved my little table
and chairs into the hallway
instead, right in front of my
mom and dad’s room, lol. I
laid out the “fine” white
plastic china set that my mom
had gotten for me at the
cheapie store, and I dressed
Hippi, and a couple other
nameless stuffed animals, in
doll clothes, before seating
each of them in a chair. I
put on a play dress and hat,
and like the little lady I was
pretending to be, I began to
ever so politely serve tea to
my guests. My mom thought it
was cute, and she took a
picture. To this day, she
still has it in one of her
albums, and every time I see
it, I remember that day, but
not because of the tea party.
It was the day I first SAW one
of them--the ONLY day, as we
moved from that house soon
after.
I remember I was facing my
parents room, serving “tea”
and talking with Hippi and the
others, when it VERY suddenly
got cold, and I *KNEW* someone
was behind me, and that it was
a woman and she was angry, and
I knew it wasn’t my mommy. I
lifted my head up, and instead
of turning around, I looked
right ahead into the open door
of my parents’ room. In the
mirror above my mother’s
dresser/vanity thing that was
straight ahead, was my
reflection. Mine, Hippi and
friends, and hers.
I still remember what she
looked like. She wasn’t
solidly there, but she wasn’t
just an outline of mist
either. She was an older lady,
with a very lined, worn face.
Her dark hair was in a very
untidy bun, with tendrils of
hair escaping everywhere.
There were smudgy, dark stains
on her “Laura Ingalls” dress,
and on her face and hands, as
though she’d been out in the
dirt all day, maybe tending to
a garden like my mom did. But
the thing that stands out to
this day, that makes me shiver
almost 30 years later while
writing this, was watching our
reflection, and seeing her
stare through me, into my
parents’ room, and watching
her face shift from the
appearance of a dour, sullen
woman, into something plain
evil. Her colorless eyes
seemed to look right into the
reflection, and she suddenly
smiled, not a warm smile, but
an evil smile, full of hate,
and at three, I got the
distinct impression that she
was going to kill me. And I
started screaming my head
off.
My mom came running down the
hall, my screams having scared
the holy bejesus out of her,
and as she approached, I
watched the evil lady fade
away. I remember telling my
mom what I had seen in the
mirror, and my mom logically
telling me that I must have
seen her reflection in the
hallway, or that I had just
imagined it. My mom never did
believe me back then, lol.
And after she helped me pick
up my room, ate some ice cream
with me, and sat up with me
for a week’s worth of nights,
all was okay again. Although
to this day, I have VERY few
mirrors in my house, and I
avoid looking into anything
that reflects, even a placid
pool of water.
Then, we moved. And although
I still felt things, they
weren’t scary things, as much
as…unnerving. For example,
dodging out of my room to
steal a glass of water in the
middle of the night, I might
feel that someone was there,
or someone was watching me,
but it wasn’t a
heart-pounding, sweat-breaking
feeling of dread, it was more
a slight fear of the unknown,
that would slightly nag at me
as I tried to get back to
sleep. The only times I ever
felt any real fear when I was
living there, was not from
them. They never came to me,
they were never angry or
bothered. They were simply
going about their own
business, and never really
bothered with any of us. It
was a great arrangement, and
still is, as my parents still
live there, and probably will
until the end.
Looking back, I realize it was
never the phony stuff that
scared me. I could watch
“Friday the 13th”,
I could watch “Halloween” or
“Nightmare on Elm Street”, and
I could watch “Hellraiser” and
“Children of the Corn”. Not
only could I watch it, I could
still sleep soundly that
night.
No, I felt fear when
sometimes, just reading or
seeing something on TV, I
would “feel“ too much.
Anything mysterious, unusual,
or paranormal, that was based
in TRUTH, gave me the
weebie-jeebies.
Aliens--CHECK; ESP--CHECK;
Ghosts--CHECK, CHECK! If it
was unsolved, unexplained, or
unknown, it preyed on me.
I felt fear watching “Unsolved
Mysteries” episodes that dealt
with murders or anything
paranormal. Because I’d watch
the reenactment, and
sometimes, I’d FEEL it. The
show would share details or
tidbits of information, and I
would catch myself saying “No,
that’s not right!” or “You’re
looking in the wrong place.”
And THAT scared me. THAT
would keep my 13-14 year old
self up all night, with full
lights blazing. To this day,
when I hear the theme music to
that show, it still sends
shivers down my spine.
At 17, I discovered that I
should no longer watch
historical documentaries as
well. Why? Because I caught
a four-part series on “The
Titanic” on A & E once. Aside
from shivering sometimes when
they showed an old picture, it
was all going extremely well.
UNTIL…they brought on an OLD
lady, and her daughter. The
old lady had been 13 when she
was on the Titanic, had been
one of those in the life boats
who’d survived. And to this
day, I’ve never forgotten one
thing she said in particular,
“I can still hear the
screams in my head, and I
remember hating those screams,
because I knew one of them was
probably my mother or father,
my sisters or brother. But
what I hated worse, was when I
realized the screams had
stopped.” And after
she said that, I knew without
a doubt that I was screwed,
and that I wouldn’t be getting
any good sleep for at least a
couple weeks in the nights to
come, lol.
And I was right. When night
came, and I was left alone
with my thoughts, I tried to
desperately not think of it.
I picked up books to read, put
music on, I did everything I
could to stop it from
happening. But, I failed, as
I knew I would, and finally I
FELT myself there in her
place. It was me huddled in
that boat between other
nameless survivors, hating the
scratchiness of the drab wool
blanket wrapped around me,
feeling the boat rocking under
me and trying to keep my
balance, feeling the frigid
coldness of that North
Atlantic night air on my
cheeks and seeing my breath
curl into tufts of smoke. And
I heard them. I heard them
all. I heard them from the
water, and I heard them on the
boats, crying and screaming
also. And then, I heard the
silence, after the boat had
gone down. I heard them, and
I’ve never forgotten.
Stupidly, a mere 6 months
later, I watched the Civil War
PBS series with my mom
(knowing full well I
shouldn‘t, but stubbornly
trying to prove something to
myself by doing it), and can
still hear the gunshots and
shouts, I can still feel
myself slipping down a hill on
rivers of red, and I can still
smell the smoke and fear in
the air, and the rancid
overlying odor of death.
(A popular kid in high
school…I was not.
Artistic--yes. Bright--yes.
Dramatic--yes. One of the
beautiful, athletic, popular
kids--PFFT!)
There has only been one time
in my life that I can honestly
say, I was grateful for
feeling and knowing things.
Because it brought comfort to
someone who I loved dearly.
Growing up, it was never a
secret that I was “missing” an
aunt. My Aunt Clara, my mom’s
sister, had died from the
Asian flu at 17 years old, in
‘57. My mom, being 9 at the
time, had never been close to
her due to the age
difference. But regardless,
every time I saw the picture
of my Aunt Clara that my
grandma kept in her living
room, there was always
something in her face that
made me feel safe. And when I
slept at Grandma’s, in that
same house that Clara had died
in, and later both Grans and
Gramps, I always slept deeply
and dreamlessly.
I moved out of my parents’
house when I was 19. I moved
in with some friends of mine,
in another town, and it was a
new house, no lingering karma
or vibes going on. It was
bliss!
And it was there that I met my
Aunt Clara, first-born
daughter of the grandma who
had made me “Hippi” all those
years ago.
I woke up one night, and there
she was, standing in my room.
The lights weren’t on for
once, but I could see her
there, clear as day, along
with my dirty laundry on the
floor, and the red LCD display
on my alarm clock reading
1:33. And she stood there,
bathed in a very soft, dim,
whitish/blue light, wearing
her trademark cat eye glasses,
smiling at me. Slightly
disturbed, I looked away, and
when looked back, she was
gone.
Normally, after something like
that, I would have flicked
those lights on and been up
ALL night scared senseless,
but for some reason, the
thought that SHE had been
there, was okay. I wasn’t
scared, and fell right back
asleep.
She appeared again that night,
in dream or for real, I’ve
never figured out. But all
the same, she was sitting on
the edge of my bed, smiling at
me again. This time, I
spoke. I said “You’re my Aunt
Clara.” And she smiled and
nodded her head. Then she
said, “Tell mom that I’m here,
and I’m watching the children
play, and they’re happy. And,
Sarah, you have the power to
end it, just stop hearing. Or
you’ll have to discover the
truth yourself.” And, with
that, she was gone.
So, I told Grans what Clara
had told me to tell her, which
brought tears of happiness to
my grandma, as one of my
cousins had committed suicide
a few months before that, and
my grandma took the “children
playing” as meaning that he
was there, and okay.
And I don’t know if that’s
what my Aunt meant, but either
way, it made my grandma happy,
and I’m thankful for that.
That year for her birthday, I
was out shopping and ran into
a pretty music box (stop
laughing, OLTL fans!) with a
pretty poem and hummingbirds
engraved on it. I opened it,
and the song “You Are My
Sunshine” started playing.
And although I’ve NEVER liked
that song, I KNEW, without a
doubt, that I was supposed to
give this to Gran. I fought
against it for a moment,
because there were certainly
prettier things in the
store--pricey, breakable knick
knacks, melodious wind chimes,
and other charming odds and
ends, along with other music
boxes with much more prettier,
and elegant tunes. But,
regardless of what I wanted to
get her, I knew I HAD to get
that for her. So, with a
sigh, and “Fine!” to no one in
particular, I grudgingly paid
for it.
But, when she opened the box
up, and the music started
playing, I was assured that it
had been the right thing to
do. Gran’s eyes filled up
with tears, and after looking
at it in a sort of awed
silence, she looked me in the
eye with a serious and
confused look, and asked so
softly, “How did you know?”,
and I told her simply “A
little bird whispered in my
ear, grans.” And she laughed
about that, cried a little,
then she hugged me, and told
me, “Thanks for bringing her
back. I’ve missed her.” And
that was that.
I do not know what the
connection was between that
song, my aunt, and my
grandma. It always felt
“wrong” to ask her, so I never
did, and Gran took the secret
with her in September when she
joined Clara and Gramps. But,
I know there was a connection,
and for once, I rejoiced about
knowing something I shouldn‘t
have. Because for once, it
had brought some much needed
peace and happiness to someone
I loved very much, and still
miss every single day.
Then, I got married, and had
kids, and I literally have
done as much as I feel I can
do to keep the feelings at
bay. For the most part, what
I’ve had the last few years,
hasn’t been bad.
For example, my 10 year old
niece got abducted by her
non-custodial father in
December of 97, and I told
everyone she was in Mexico,
but no one wanted to believe
me, except the hubby, he’d
learned his lesson by then,
lol. And he believed, and
believed me when I told him
we’d see her again, and she
would be quite grown up.
About a year ago, I told Ruben
that I had a feeling that she
was pregnant. To which, no
one wanted to believe, seeing
as she was only 15 at that
time, and plus, how could I
know? But I just KNEW she was
pregnant. But I had a bad
feeling about the pregnancy.
Nothing that I could
pin-point, like it was a rape
or she was sick or anything, I
just had a bad feeling about
it. Well, last August, we
were reunited with my niece,
who had been in Puerto
Vallarta MEXICO all these
years, had gotten married at
15 to get away from her dad,
had gotten pregnant, but had
lost twin boys in May, in her
sixth month. Hence, the bad
feeling I’d had about her
pregnancy.
But it’s not all been lovely
times either.
I’ve had to really curb myself
from delving into any
historical or paranormal
books, movies, or other things
that I want to do, read, or
see, just so I can keep myself
grounded. I simply do NOT
want to take the chance of
opening myself up to any
unknown happenings/feelings
that could result. And it’s
all wearing thin, as I WANT to
be able to read whatever I
want, watch whatever I want,
and STILL be able to sleep
like a baby that night.
Also, we’ve lived in the same
house for 5 years, come April
Fool’s Day. It’s a rental,
and an older house, and it’s
got its own characters. One
in particular, likes to fool
around at night, levitating
things, and if I don’t put my
keyboard away at night, it
likes to click at the keys,
which is quite a disconcerting
thing to wake up to. Another,
likes the stereo and the TV,
and likes to turn them on in
the middle of the night.
Which is a nuisance, but not
deadly.
But, I still don’t like it.
I’ve told them all to go away,
but it’s like they don’t
respect me, and won’t leave me
alone, lol.
I remember what my aunt told
me, that I have the power to
end it, simply if I “stop
hearing them” …but, HOW do I
stop? And since I can’t seem
to find the damn stop button,
she said that I would have to
find out the truth for
myself.
So, here I am. At the
beginning of a journey, with
no road signs, and I honestly
do not know where I’m supposed
to even start.
I want to stop hearing and
feeling. I sleep with a fan
on, even in the dead of
winter, to drone out any
sounds I may overhear. I’m
tired of not being able to get
decent sleep due to “falling
off the bandwagon” and reading
or watching something I
logically know I shouldn’t.
I’m tired of being so
unbearably tired and crabby
the next few days, and having
to listen to the usual,
frustrated lecture from my
hubby about “If you know it‘s
going to bug you, then why do
you watch/listen to/read
it?!?!”
But, again, how do I stop
feeling it, when sometimes, in
the dead of night, it comes to
me? How do I stop them from
seeking me out? How do turn
off that side of me that feels
it, even when I don‘t want
to? I want to stop feeling
them. I want to stop knowing
things I shouldn’t know, or
feeling things that aren’t my
own feelings. I’m not John
Edward or Sylvia Browne, I’m
just me, and that’s who I want
to be. Just me.
I do NOT want to accept that I
have no power over the
situation! The idea of that
not only frustrates and angers
me, but it empowers my fear,
and I end up caught in a
vicious catch-22 (being scared
because I feel I have no
control, but having no control
because I’m scared). Is my
fear of accepting whatever
THIS is, keeping me bound to
it? Has my fear of it led me
to become a slave to it?
I don’t want to be part of the
unknown. Which leads me back
to where I began at, in fear
of the unknown. How? Why?
When?---I don’t know. How can
I stop it? Not a clue. CAN I
stop it? I wish I knew. Is
everything just a coincidence
and I have over-reacted? That
idea has floated before, on
the edge of the realm of
possibility, but I honestly
feel that’s not the answer.
Am I just simply crazy,
delusional, or paranoid? I
feel well-adjusted for the
most part, and am actually
very happy with most aspects
of myself, so I don’t feel
that this is the answer
either.
So, at 31, I’ve decided to try
and figure it all out, and
make peace with what I find,
whether it be I’m crazier than
a loon, too empathetic and/or
dramatic-thinking, or if it’s
something else.
I need to know, I need to
accept it, because I want to
be completely free.
And in writing this, my quest
has been born.
©
Amy Brown Fantasy Art
Enchanting
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