These are waking encounters with the three senses of audio, visual, and smell. The audio is generally with my own ears, but on few occasions in my minds eye I hear people. The smell is always through my nose and not just a feeling. The visual is generally through my minds eye, but not always. The previous post in this series is The Portal House. Ever since I can remember, I have constantly had things dart in and out of my peripheral vision; as in I will see things from the corners of my eyes. Indistinct shapes that fly past. The smell that I pick up on most is of a damp cave with water in it. I call it The Ghost Smell. I have no idea if it's water spirits, like fae or something, or actual ghosts, or ghosts who have drowned, or something else. I don't know. It's a smell that I like, because I do like that wet, damp, cold cave smell (it doesn't smell like a grave, if you're wondering. Just go tour a cave, that's the smell). However, the smell comes up in weird places. I can be beside water, but most of the time I'm no where near water. I don't know what it means, but in my early twenties I was convinced that it was ghosts and actually followed the smell that only I could smell and the people I was with thought that I was insane, so I didn't do that anymore. Besides the fact that when I did stop, it felt like I'd been following it not entirely of my own accord and that was unnerving. This next one ties in, possibly, with that first bit of The Ghost Smell. I say possibly, because it could just be abandoned fort smell that's got the ocean right there. We always used to go to Ship Island. I hated it, because there are no trees and it's hotter than fuck out there. I loved to swim, but I'm not a fan of ocean water for swimming, but my parents would try to force me to swim. Usually I would just escape into the fort. Fort Massachusetts, which I didn't know the name or the history of it at the time. First and foremost it was a respite from the blistering heat outside. And it was just cool because I love old brickwork and forts. The only living people I would see were old white men, presumably war buffs who enjoy a good fort. I was the only child (or person under 40) and the only female. The old white men would notice me and be weirded out or find it endearing and possibly for the same reason of 'It's a little girl? Enjoying the fort? Huh!' There were a lot of young white dead men there too. Not a lot. Probably twenty, but far more than the living meandering within the walls. They wore blue and I felt that they didn't like the people being in the fort. I felt that it had something to do with a line south. It made me nervous. When the dead men saw me, they had the same feeling of the line south, but then they felt bitter-sweet happy. Almost like, 'Aww, it's just a little girl. She's not one of 'em.' and feelings from some of them missing their own daughters. But they did not like the old white alive men and I could see these dead men (or residual energy) acting like they wanted to attack them and a lot of time, I'd skirt away from certain areas where the dead were and be afraid when a living person got too close. I have since looked up the history, in my early thirties. No one that I know of died in that fort. But it was built by the US government following The War of 1812, then when Mississippi seceded, it was a Confederate fort. Then the Union took it back over in 1862 and kept it until the end of The Civil War. It's weird that since dad's big on wars, he didn't really tour this fort and he never told me about it. They only thing I remember is that he didn't want me to go into that fort. I do think he's sensitive to such things, even though he may not talk about it nor realize it. Did he sense the danger to 'line south' people? I knew they were military, though I didn't know it was The Civil War at four years old. They were in blue and it felt personal, this "line south" feeling that I got. Most of the alive men would say hello or something to me and they were all southerners, just like me. It's probably just residual energy from the Union troops being there and they did not like anyone who was Johnny Reb. But I was OK, though I didn't go near them, though sometimes one or two would motion me over or say "It's OK, come here." But then the fact that they were so interactive, is it just that when they died later on in life that their souls just shot back to this fort? I have no idea. Also, I'm not certain if I was seeing them in my minds eye or with my real eyes, but I want to say with my real eyes. I'll also smell dead people. That sounds gross and it isn't entirely what I mean. I smell my dead relatives. Smells that always bring that familiar sense of them. I always associate turkey and celery with my maternal grandmother. It won't be Thanksgiving and no one is eating turkey, nor messing with celery and all of a sudden everything smells comfy cozy like Thanksgiving. Like the turkey is in the oven wafting out its cooking smell and celery is sizzling in butter on the stove. It's very brief and I inhale a few times to make sure I'm really smelling what I think I'm smelling and I usually say, "I smell grandma!", then ask if anyone else smells Thanksgiving foods; turkey and celery specifically. I'll even go so far as to ask if they've just eaten turkey, or have been chopping up celery. The answer is always no. She's actually who I smell the most. Though sometimes I've smelled motor oil and dirt, very rarely though (perhaps twice, maybe three times), and no one is near me or no one's been messing with either thing. It feels masculine and comforting and I believe it to be my paternal grandfather. Only once did I smell my paternal grandmother. She hadn't even died yet. She was dying, in hospital, three hours away. It was a terrible time. Dad was constantly back and forth between here and there and everything was so uncertain. We even decorated extra special for Christmas while he was there, so that it would be some sort of happy that he returned to. I got into the car in the drivers seat, and leaned over to get something from the passenger seat and everything just washed over me. Dirt, roses, the colour of dusty rose pink, and parfume that is hard to describe; a flowery, but earthy scent that she would wear. All of that enveloped me and all I could feel was my maternal grandmother. She was in the space of the passenger seat. I pulled back, sniffed, nothing. Moved forward, and that was all that sensation again. Then it was gone. I moved around to try to get it again, but that was it. I cried. I was already pretty emotional over this uncertain and lingering death. I thought perhaps she had already died, but it didn't feel that way, so I supposed she was OK. It was still weird though. Really nice, like a warm hug of love, but still a bit weird. Four days later she died on our way to come and say goodbye to her. I cried after dad got the phone message and we were just passing Liberty. I cranked the music, sobbed, and pulled myself together. I hadn't been able to say goodbye. I had wanted to say goodbye, but this kitten I had rescued and nursed back to health wasn't doing well again. I had to help this kitten, I couldn't abandon him. So, I just talked to the air, hoping she would hear. "Grandma, I want to come see you, say goodbye, but I can't. This kitten needs me. I made a promise to him. I've always loved you and always will and I'll miss you fiercely, but I can't come right now. I'm sorry." I think she heard, because when she came to see me it only the day after I'd sent that message into the Universe for her. It made me cry, but happy tears when I went back and remembered that, which was only very recently. She'd heard, and come to say goodbye. I hadn't disappointed her. She understood why I couldn't be there. I've also encountered smells that take me back through time. I don't know if I've lived past lives, or if I just, in this lifetime, can experience other times, but say burning leaves will remind me of the 18th century in Colonial America. Not all burning leaves. And sometimes people aren't even burning leaves anywhere and I get the smell and it's all I can think of. Going back to my maternal grandmother, I find it interesting that we're so connected and weren't blood related at all. But, we were really connected in life, so perhaps that is why. I was doing a baking challenge earlier this year and we were coming up on miniature pies with from scratch pie crust dough. I'm abysmal at pie crusts. I've only tackled them twice and they were complete disasters both times. However, this time, I was determined to see all of the challenges through, including this one. I remember willing myself to be calm and not get worked up over the fact that I couldn't do it. I'm following the recipe and get to a part where I'm supposed to mix the butter into the flour and I'm unsure what size the particles are supposed to be or even how to mix it. All of a sudden it felt just like my grandmother was right there on my left side telling me, in my minds eye, what to do. I could also see her in my minds eye to my left. Not really in colour, but certainly not grey, but like muted colouring and she looked like I remember her in the 1980s. "Mix it with your hands, go on!" "Yes, like that. No you're not there yet. Little more. There, that's the size pearls." Then rolling the dough out, that's generally where the disaster lies. But she was still there to the left telling me which way to go. "Add some flour, not a lot. Roll out, further. Now roll against it to seal that line. Roll towards you." And on and on until I had a big, beautiful, pretty perfect circle. I didn't use enough apple filling, so it was just pie crust really, but those miniature pies were absolutely perfect. My grandmother, standing there had known it too. Knew they would turn out fine, before she left when I as separating the dough and tucking the two pieces into Saran Wrap to put in the fridge. Most of everything that I did with that dough in the kitchen that day weren't techniques I knew. They're weren't something I would have thought, "Well, the logical thing to do would be...." I didn't technically make that dough that day and I knew it. I mean I did make it, but I totally used my grandmothers guidance because I could "see" and "hear" her. Visited Fort McHenry in Baltimore a few years ago. As I said, I do really enjoy forts. All forts are of different construction and this was the type where you walk on the earthen hills and the fort is underneath for the most part. That's it up there. If you notice there are levels, so I'm on the upper, earthen level taking this photo, but the next level you can see brick stairs going down and into that earthen mound. Well, this event took place to the right of this photograph. It's a similar spot to what is in the photo, but it's larger and the two entrances are not on the side (like this one), but on that wall closest to me. You'd walk down the steps and meet a closed iron bar gate to your right and you could see that it would circle or horse shoe around to the other side (which did have an iron bar gate to the left of those stairs), but the center was it's own room (I could see the doorway) and the walls had doorways every few places. I'm not sure what that particular building was used for as it didn't say and there wasn't really a tour guide. But I went down the left stairs and stood in front of the gate and I heard people talking down and towards the back. Even if they were real I wouldn't have seen them. The voices were very audible, as I was picking them up with my own ears, and I wasn't hearing them in my minds eye. It sounded like hushed, urgent tones of men and I couldn't make out exactly what they were saying. But it was a great discussion or plan, I felt. Well, I ran back up the stairs and there wasn't anyone around at this end of the fort. I ran down the right set of stairs to that iron gate and heard no voices. Ran back up and no one was around and I ran back down the left set of stairs to that gate and the same talking was going on like it had never stopped. Surely I would have been able to hear it from the other side, the building doesn't just end, but goes around under there. This second time I did call out and the talking stopped. After a few seconds it started up again. I called out again, it stopped, and then started back up again. Run back up and catch my sister and get her to go down there with me. The talking is still going on, but she can't hear it. "Maybe... I'm not sure..." is really what she said. But honestly even though it was whispered, it was kind of loud, perhaps the echoing effect of the way the building was built? If anyone could hear it, they wouldn't have said "Maybe." It was really a yes or no scenario. Run back up and tell her to stand guard at the top of the stairs here. Got our friend and told her to stand guard at the other one. "Don't let anyone down." I wanted to see if it was tourists making the noise or not. Still couldn't hear it down the right stairs, but it was still going on from the left stairs. No one had come down one set of stairs while I was on the other. My sister and our friend hadn't been talking. I'd told them to keep quiet, plus they didn't sound like men. While down a certain set of stairs, I'd look back and my lookout was right where I could see them and not talking to anyone at all. Also later I asked someone that worked at the fort if there were people meeting in that building. He looked at me like I was crazy and said, "We don't go in there." I'm not sure if "we don't go in there" because it's creepy or because there's no reason to go in there and I'm just a crazy girl asking about some portion of the fort they could care less about. It didn't feel creepy or evil. It did feel weird from those gates like men waiting for uncertain death. But I didn't think those men plotting would have hurt me, I didn't get that feeling. They didn't even know or care that I was there. Walking up on them might have resulted in something completely different though, I don't know. We had relations near Natchez and would always visit Kings Tavern while there simply because it was spooky. However, the only thing they'll ever talk about is the girl ghost Madeline whose skeleton they apparently found bricked up in the fireplace. Oh, they found a skeleton bricked up in the fireplace with a jeweled dagger in its chest. The apparently part is that they don't know it's Madeline, they just say it is. I personally feel that they have a lot more there. The kitchen is on the second floor, the original main entrance, and sometimes certain dining areas are open there. Mainly the main entrance and eating are in the former stables on the bottom level. The third floor has a bathroom and bedroom and then entrance to the attic. One time we toured the third floor. This is where I encountered The Ghost Smell that I was sniffing out all over the place up there, which did freak me out that I was following it, when I finally stopped. I'm not sure if that's Madeline or not. However, the entrance to the attic was open. It's just a pull down door that's only 3 feet off the floor, and that was open and right inside the attic were some cases of beer (I'm sure for the restaurant). Well, I popped my head up in there. I got this really violent headache and felt nauseous. In my minds eye I heard a baby crying and felt intense male anger, then the connected feeling that the headache was from the baby. I think the man threw the baby against the wall or smashed its skull in some how. It felt horrible up there. No one working talks about dead babies or mean men, but they will say that if you couldn't pay a lot, the attic would be your lodgings for the night back then. Also the next several times we went back, the attic was closed up and locked, which I find interesting. On another occasion, we toured the second floor. I entered this one dining area and there were three or four windows on three walls. I felt an immense pull to look out one of the windows. My logical side thought, "Well, sure. Out there is the "front" yard and that was the main entrance once and I've never seen it, so lets." I'm walking towards this one particular window and when I'm about three feet from it, an image flashes into my minds eye. A man dressed in Regency/Romantic era clothing, the top hat, the coat, the ascot. His face was distorted in some sort of weird crazy joy. He wanted me to come to the window. I don't know if he would have shown him self for real (like me seeing him with my own eyes), had I gone to the window, if he would have attacked me, if he would have tried to jump in me? I'm not sure. But his energy is what had been pulling me to that particular window and when I "saw" him, I just stopped and thought, "Nope, nope, nope" and turned around without a word and left that room. Later that evening my sister was starting to tell me about the weird event that happened to her. We kept finishing each others sentences and basically the exact same thing happened to her. She was pulled towards that certain window, thought, "yeah I could look outside", three feet from it she got that mental image flash of the exact same looking man in the exact same clothes, turned around and left. I think I was about fourteen, possibly fifteen. We were in the mountains and I wanted to go to this restaurant, because it used to be an old homestead and was reported to be haunted. It wasn't mentioned haunted by whom or what, just "haunted". I got up from our table to go to the bathroom and I was looking around to see if I could see anything paranormal. I passed by the stairs and stopped, then walked back and looked up the stairs. In my minds eye I could see a girl about my age (possibly a little older of a teenager), long dark hair. She was hung up by the neck at the top of the stairs from that beam up there just staring down at me. The minds eye vision was only for the briefest of moments. I still felt like someone was looking at me from down the stairs though. I kept staring up there, intent, concentrating, wanting to see what I'd "seen" in my mind for real. I did go ask the lady at the register how the place was haunted. She said something, I don't really remember, but it wasn't the answer I was looking for. "So, a teenager girl didn't hang herself from those stairs?" She looked scared. "No, honey. No girl killed herself here." "Are you sure?!" she seemed spooked and didn't at all seem certain, however she said, "I'm sure. Now where are your parents?" Things are hazy after that. I remember sitting down at the table, but have no memory of actually walking to it. I have no memory of getting into the car, though I have a brief memory of hanging my head and half of my body out the car window and yelling in exhilaration. I don't remember anything else of the car ride, I only remember being in the hotel room staring at my mom through what felt like slit eyes and her saying "Get out of my daughter." and my sister giving me weird looks and not wanting to come near me. Then I remember thinking I felt strange and everything was strange, though I remembered everything after that point. My mom says I was possessed. Sure sounds like it, but was I? One night, asleep in bed, I was woken by this loud crashing. When I turned on the light I was pretty freaked out. I had a crate hung up on the wall with my CD's in it. That's what came crashing down. Except instead of just falling off the wall and either the crate being by the wall or having skid a little bit, it was all the way across the room. The CD's might have slid across the floor over there, but that crate wouldn't have. It was like someone had thrown it across the room. The nail was still in place in the wall, firmly. I even hung it back up and put my CD's back in and then tested the weight. There weren't too many CD's in there, the crate wasn't too heavy, it was stuck firm and so was the nail. This leads me to The Altar of the Dead. I created one when I was a teenager (seventeen or eighteen). A table with offerings of ground coffee and candy and fruit and incense. I had it in my closet. Above it on the wall were pictures of relatives and people I knew who had died. That was probably a bad idea to begin with, but then I found pictures of dead relatives that I didn't know (some I wasn't even related to - having been from my adopted maternal grandmothers side), and moved the altar out into my room... right beside my bed. And that's when things got weird. That's when those CD's flew off the wall, that's when the 3 ft black humanoid shape scurried away from my bed and out the door, that's when the music box started up. I was lying in bed and hadn't fallen asleep yet. I'd updated the altar by a lot and added more things. One was some antique music box from the Kingston house. All of a sudden, in the darkness of my room, from the altar came this unmistakable tinking music sound of a music box. I shot up in bed, turned on the lights and the music was still on. My whole room felt really weird. I got up, took the lid off the music box and nothing. Wound it up and it started playing the music I'd just heard before I got up. I threw the music box across the room to get it away from me, but then had to go and put it right and the lid on because it was still warbling out music. I dismantled that altar that night. I hadn't realized that a heaviness sat in that corner until all of it was gone, until the altar was no more. I'm not saying it was a thing. More like energy. Perhaps having things like that might invite other spirits. Who knows? But I do know that I should have never put objects from a portal house or pictures of people I didn't know in real life to that altar. One picture, though it featured some of my non-blood maternal relatives whom I'd never met, there were other people in the picture. How stupid can someone be, right? So, there were probably known loved one's not mingling well with ancestors I never knew, who were not mingling well with the other dead people in those photos or whatever might be attached to certain objects. The last portion of this series will have to wait for another time, during daylight (It's 11.29 at night now). The things are the worst experience I have ever had and are not things I like to talk about to people, or even remember by myself when it's dark outside. I'm still really shaken up by them, so daylight hours it is.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorA girl from South Mississippi who finds herself in exploration. Archives
November 2019
Categories |