Here is an extract for you, a scene in which Camilla ventures into the cellars of the house, beckoned by an unknown entity:
Plaster peeled from ancient walls, once applied with a loving hand, perhaps once admired by proud eyes. A small heap lay upon concrete floor; damp, forgotten. Visible patches of stone greeted me as I touched its crumbling walls, my fingers excavating years of standing decay. Tiny paw scurried beside by feet, a desperate wish for freedom, a life still to live. Cobwebs wrapped around my hair, tearing strands whilst I trailed a long ago creature from sleep. Steps almost gave way beneath me, clear danger looming should I have lost control. My hand needed to grasp for safety, a rail of aged wood and early craftsmanship. Descent to darkened rooms in trepidation, the unknown as was always my existence. I had learnt not to fear, to look forward with challenging mind, embrace with anticipation. With flickering candle I made my journey, a short wait before the unknown would be familiar territory. From days gone by I could feel my thoughts drowning in residual energy, a possession becoming too close for comfort, too many spirits vying for my attention. I wanted only one. Yet I was not sure which one. I knew my heart rested with a male entity, I knew he once lived in this house. My frustration played on my ever potent mind but I was drawn, beckoned by a force too strong to resist. My destination would soon become clear, light would shine upon perishing rooms and my eyes would see the love which continued to overwhelm me. Just a few more steps to take. More deterioration from an unoccupied space. I wanted to know who sought me from the depths of Rosehill; which soul still lived to protect me in my home; and why.
I arrived in the first room, a large pantry, shelved and mouldy. The open door clung to a hinge, determined not to fall to plaster-ridden floor. Two square sheets of glass at the top, thick with dust, dark brown wood flaking, woodworm having lived within for too many years. Old and murky bottles stood on a top shelf, cobwebs encased around them. Putrid tins with lid intact, broken glass, rusty pans, all shared space upon shelves, memories recorded by servants’ hands. The candle continued to flicker, I cupped my hand around its flame, the darkness would have been too thick for me to wander these desperate rooms. More scurrying, orbs, perhaps dust, whispers from another world. I made my way into the next room, a large space filled with a debris littered floor. The room was staggeringly cold, my heavy coat unable to warm me. A small light shone in one corner, alerting me to a possible presence, and my potential find. I transfixed my eyes to the light as it grew, a steadfast glow increasing in intensity whilst arrogantly performing before my eyes. A shape began to appear, a body first, legs following. The light became the figure of a man, to which I felt I had been invited to witness. My breath was evident, my hands were frozen to the bone. I did not feel afraid though I was cautious, the atmosphere adding to my apprehension.
The light now shone against the head of the figure that stood before me, seemingly unwilling to show a face. It was the same outline as the spirit man I had seen often around the house, still shy of allowing me sight of his identity. A little frustration grew inside me as I asked, quietly,“who are you?” I stayed cautious, I did not want spirit to think I was prudent. Spirit will only show themselves if they choose, it is their prerogative.
Saturday, 24 October 2009
Sunday, 29 June 2008
Extract 3
My time was booked shortly after by Julia Delaney, a journalist whom I felt wanted a reading in order to write about it in her weekly column. However, obligingly I accepted her request and booked her in, hoping I would make contact with someone close to her, finding the proof that she so obviously craved. I never felt as though I had to prove anything to anyone. My gift was true and those who wished not to believe were free to do so. It always came as a shock to the sceptics when I was able to communicate with a loved one and they had no choice but to believe what they heard.
When I had first started practicing I would be visited by many sceptics which often frustrated me, leaving me feeling quite drained after a short reading. It was of course embarrassing if no spirits presented before me but after a while I realised that I had no need to feel that way. My spirit guide was always present and more often than not, the sceptic returned some months later for another try. I think it always helped them to step into my life as I never took money, even though some of the believers insisted I did and gave it to charity.
Julia, tall, elegant and dressed in smart black trouser suit, stepped into the house. She held a file under her arm and I suspected a pen within easy reach in her handbag. It crossed my mind whether or not she may possess a Dictaphone or even a tape recorder but she did not show me either. Her initial reaction to my hospitality shocked me somewhat as I ushered her into the reading room.
“Can I offer you a drink of something?”
“I think we should just get on with it. You call yourself a medium? We’ll see.”
I stared at her, asking myself if I should suggest she left. Clearly she had no intention of being here for a reading. I told her to sit down while I reached for the Crystal. Placing it once more on pewter stand I looked into it, briefly glancing up at my client. The only thing I saw in the Crystal was a newspaper. Typical. No spirit was present at that time.
“Would you like me to give you a formal reading? Are you here to see if we can contact a loved one?” My question was genuine, I often asked sceptical clients how they felt.
“You should know I will be doing a piece on you. It won’t be pleasant reading because I don’t believe a word of what you say.”
“Then perhaps we should draw a close to the reading now. I don’t wish any confrontation in my home.” I touched the Crystal. My hands came alive with electricity, a shock I had felt only a few times before during particularly difficult readings.
As a picture began to form in my mind I could see Ms Delaney standing over a pile of newspapers, laughing and jeering, a man standing nearby. Unfortunately, I could not make out the man’s face. Yet he looked familiar. He was tall also, brown hair, slightly grey in parts. An uncomfortable feeling was rushing through my stomach as I prayed hard for spirit presence, any spirit presence to join us and prove to this woman that I was genuine. Not for a long time had I felt this way.
“Can you see anything then?” she asked with sarcasm in her voice.
“I can see you and a pile of newspapers.” I knew I sounded predictable but I never lied about what I saw in the Crystal, unless it was death.
“Has anyone joined us? Can you hear any noises?"
“Please relax, I feel you are tense. There really is no need to be.” I decided to stay calm. I could not show this woman that she had caused me anxiousness. I was determined not to let my discomfort show as she continued to sit cross legged in her chair, completely unaware of the spirit I was beginning to feel had come forward.
“You really are a fake, aren’t you. I’ve never known such nonsense in all my life.” She sniggered, adjusting her jacket and folding her arms. She was terribly rude and I was tempted to just close the reading down. I found her increasingly difficult to tune into. Many clients came to see me feeling nervous and I usually had the ability, and the experience, to make them feel at ease within five minutes of coming into my home. Julia Delaney however, was a challenge.
“You should know that there is a spirit in the room with us. I do not yet know who it is and I would ask you once again to relax.... try to help me determine their identity.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” Another snigger.
“By keeping quiet. Just for a few minutes so that I can adjust my mind into understanding what I am dealing with.” The spirit was making it almost impossible for me to communicate. I asked silently for my grandmother to protect me as I feared the soul was not to be reckoned with.
The problem was, I had not sensed my grandmother at all during the short time Ms Delaney and myself were in the reading room. Ms Delaney looked at me, her eyes cold and determined.
“You are not wanted in this village. Your ways are offending the residents and people are talking about you. When I send this to print you will no doubt be forced to leave.” Abuse did not affect me. My guard was slightly rocked however, when she continued to almost order me from my own home.
Upon standing from her seat, picking up the file she had carried, she turned towards the door. I wanted the spirit to communicate so that I could show this despicable woman that she was wrong about me. My prayers were soon to be answered.
“I suggest you stay away from the Reverend too. He is not right for you and I can assure you he will not want to know you once he reads the paper.” These words shocked me more than any other she had spoken in the fifteen minutes of being in her presence.
Why should she tell me to stay away from Marcus? Who did she think she was, coming into my home, telling me what I could and could not do? I began to feel angry, a feeling I rarely had. Of course I had been accused of being a fake, by many non-believers, but words just went through me, they did not affect my ability to communicate.
As Ms Delaney turned on her heels once more, it all happened so fast; one of the candles on the mantelpiece fell to the floor, the small flame setting light to my hearth rug. I jumped up from my chair, frantically stamping my foot on the small fire which threatened to cause damage to my sacred room. The spirit was clearly angry, perhaps at Ms Delaney’s words, maybe at my own annoyance. This worried me. I did not welcome angry spirits into my home, I made sure my protective light deterred them from getting through. It was now clear that this spirit was stronger than my grandmother and had manifested in order to prove to Julia Delaney that there is indeed a life after death.
©CJ 2008
When I had first started practicing I would be visited by many sceptics which often frustrated me, leaving me feeling quite drained after a short reading. It was of course embarrassing if no spirits presented before me but after a while I realised that I had no need to feel that way. My spirit guide was always present and more often than not, the sceptic returned some months later for another try. I think it always helped them to step into my life as I never took money, even though some of the believers insisted I did and gave it to charity.
Julia, tall, elegant and dressed in smart black trouser suit, stepped into the house. She held a file under her arm and I suspected a pen within easy reach in her handbag. It crossed my mind whether or not she may possess a Dictaphone or even a tape recorder but she did not show me either. Her initial reaction to my hospitality shocked me somewhat as I ushered her into the reading room.
“Can I offer you a drink of something?”
“I think we should just get on with it. You call yourself a medium? We’ll see.”
I stared at her, asking myself if I should suggest she left. Clearly she had no intention of being here for a reading. I told her to sit down while I reached for the Crystal. Placing it once more on pewter stand I looked into it, briefly glancing up at my client. The only thing I saw in the Crystal was a newspaper. Typical. No spirit was present at that time.
“Would you like me to give you a formal reading? Are you here to see if we can contact a loved one?” My question was genuine, I often asked sceptical clients how they felt.
“You should know I will be doing a piece on you. It won’t be pleasant reading because I don’t believe a word of what you say.”
“Then perhaps we should draw a close to the reading now. I don’t wish any confrontation in my home.” I touched the Crystal. My hands came alive with electricity, a shock I had felt only a few times before during particularly difficult readings.
As a picture began to form in my mind I could see Ms Delaney standing over a pile of newspapers, laughing and jeering, a man standing nearby. Unfortunately, I could not make out the man’s face. Yet he looked familiar. He was tall also, brown hair, slightly grey in parts. An uncomfortable feeling was rushing through my stomach as I prayed hard for spirit presence, any spirit presence to join us and prove to this woman that I was genuine. Not for a long time had I felt this way.
“Can you see anything then?” she asked with sarcasm in her voice.
“I can see you and a pile of newspapers.” I knew I sounded predictable but I never lied about what I saw in the Crystal, unless it was death.
“Has anyone joined us? Can you hear any noises?"
“Please relax, I feel you are tense. There really is no need to be.” I decided to stay calm. I could not show this woman that she had caused me anxiousness. I was determined not to let my discomfort show as she continued to sit cross legged in her chair, completely unaware of the spirit I was beginning to feel had come forward.
“You really are a fake, aren’t you. I’ve never known such nonsense in all my life.” She sniggered, adjusting her jacket and folding her arms. She was terribly rude and I was tempted to just close the reading down. I found her increasingly difficult to tune into. Many clients came to see me feeling nervous and I usually had the ability, and the experience, to make them feel at ease within five minutes of coming into my home. Julia Delaney however, was a challenge.
“You should know that there is a spirit in the room with us. I do not yet know who it is and I would ask you once again to relax.... try to help me determine their identity.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” Another snigger.
“By keeping quiet. Just for a few minutes so that I can adjust my mind into understanding what I am dealing with.” The spirit was making it almost impossible for me to communicate. I asked silently for my grandmother to protect me as I feared the soul was not to be reckoned with.
The problem was, I had not sensed my grandmother at all during the short time Ms Delaney and myself were in the reading room. Ms Delaney looked at me, her eyes cold and determined.
“You are not wanted in this village. Your ways are offending the residents and people are talking about you. When I send this to print you will no doubt be forced to leave.” Abuse did not affect me. My guard was slightly rocked however, when she continued to almost order me from my own home.
Upon standing from her seat, picking up the file she had carried, she turned towards the door. I wanted the spirit to communicate so that I could show this despicable woman that she was wrong about me. My prayers were soon to be answered.
“I suggest you stay away from the Reverend too. He is not right for you and I can assure you he will not want to know you once he reads the paper.” These words shocked me more than any other she had spoken in the fifteen minutes of being in her presence.
Why should she tell me to stay away from Marcus? Who did she think she was, coming into my home, telling me what I could and could not do? I began to feel angry, a feeling I rarely had. Of course I had been accused of being a fake, by many non-believers, but words just went through me, they did not affect my ability to communicate.
As Ms Delaney turned on her heels once more, it all happened so fast; one of the candles on the mantelpiece fell to the floor, the small flame setting light to my hearth rug. I jumped up from my chair, frantically stamping my foot on the small fire which threatened to cause damage to my sacred room. The spirit was clearly angry, perhaps at Ms Delaney’s words, maybe at my own annoyance. This worried me. I did not welcome angry spirits into my home, I made sure my protective light deterred them from getting through. It was now clear that this spirit was stronger than my grandmother and had manifested in order to prove to Julia Delaney that there is indeed a life after death.
©CJ 2008
Wednesday, 14 November 2007
Extract No. 2 - The Visit
This extract is taken from Chapter One. Camilla, the main character, settles into her new home of which she has inherited from her grandmother.
I had finished familiarising myself with my new home, it was time to set up my reading room and begin my work. A small room downstairs sufficed, red velvet curtains already hung at large sash windows. The carpet would need replacing in time and perhaps the fireplace would need to be rediscovered but its atmosphere felt perfect for visiting spirits. I positioned a small square table in the middle of the room. Two chairs facing each other, currently unoccupied. A lace table cloth draped in heavy splendour, of old fashioned appearance, found amongst a chest of antique fabrics. I placed my Crystal Ball upon pewter stand in the middle of the table. A large candle holder with ivory candle adorned the mantle, alone and eager.
Perfect. All I needed now was people to grace me with their excited presence, looking forward to finding out which loved ones were able to bare their soul. I sat in that room for a while. Meditation came easy in such calm surroundings. Taken to a world of vivid imaginings, my mind’s eye was able to distinguish between our earth plane and the plane in which our spirit friends now had no choice but to reside. Lush green grass, morning dew still evident as sheep feasted upon blades and cud; a stream, gently flowing, carrying fallen sticks over rocks which had embedded over the years; blue skies; a yellow sun pointing her rays at poppies and wheat in the fields beyond.
I sat, flat-footed against the floor, my shoulders back and my hands resting on each knee. I could not hear a thing. I could not hear the water in my imaginary stream, or the birds which chatted in their wake. I knew something was not right. The calm was upon me as a storm brewed in my head. I needed to come out of my meditative state, find reality once more, ask why I had been presented with this unwelcome feeling.
As I lifted my feet from the floor, moving my head to see the Crystal before me, the picture appeared, clear and instantly visible, my mind’s eye drawing in to understand what was about to happen. A broken heart. Tears. It was all too predictable; too corny. I had seen broken hearts before, many times. But there was no one else in the room. I could feel no spirits beside me, I could find no explanation for a broken heart. I dismissed it. Put it down to the Crystal being in new surroundings; my own surroundings being new to my self.
As I opened the blue velvet cloth in which to securely return the Crystal, I wondered if my ears were deceiving me. I could hear the faint sound of a woman crying. It was so faint I could only just make it out and had I have been able to hear other sounds in the room, I would most certainly not have heard this one. The woman sobbed as the sound became more distinct. Covering up the Crystal, the sound appeared much clearer; a haunting cry for help.
“Who are you?” My words prompted the sobbing to stop. “Spirit. Come forward.” I looked around the room. I hoped a sign would appear of an astral presence; anything; tapping, knocking, even poltergeist activity. I was eager to know whether my reading space had been appreciated by my spirit friends.
“Please give me a sign.” I made some suggestions. “Perhaps knock on the table. Maybe you could push the candlestick from the mantle.”
It was clear after fifteen minutes of patience that the crying woman either no longer felt comfortable in her communicative encounter or she simply did not have enough energy to answer my calls. I hoped she would return, maybe she would realise she was able to draw from my energy and communicate with me in confidence.
That evening, the sun made her beautiful descent beyond the hills, lighting up the once blue sky with fire opals in abundance. I wondered how God could have created something so intense yet allowed our neighbours to shed blood in battle. I wondered about God often. How some of us walked amongst the spirits, made friends with another dimension whilst others laughed, unable to understand their astral cousins. I thought about the world so breathtaking yet abused by destructive hands, buildings of such captivating interest yet at the end of their existence as they lay destroyed by religious anger.
The television switched on by itself that night. It had often performed that highly amusing trick in my previous home but since I had moved here, it was my own hands that had brought it to life. However, this time it had decided not to wait. Perhaps there was something worth watching, something I would find interesting.
It switched onto a channel currently showing a film. A romance starring well known actors yet one in which I would have chosen to avoid. I gave the film the benefit of the doubt and made myself comfortable. The remote control lay next to me, waiting with bated breath as I found it impossible to take it in my grasp. I did not want to sit through this film. I wanted to watch a documentary which was due to be shown on the other side. I would find it more interesting, romantic films were not my thing.
The sound increased. I found myself surrounded by voices, but not just romantics who were now looking into each other’s eyes on the magic screen. The walls around me had started to speak. Women’s voices, children laughing, men asking questions. I could hear a dog bark. The room had found life. Still unable to reach the remote control I had no choice. The picture on the television began to fade as new imagery presented itself to me, two new faces, radiant with bliss. But one of the faces was beginning to look familiar. The hair colour; the brown eyes; the long profile. It was me. I did not recognise the other face; a woman’s features, quite beautiful, elegant perhaps.
Spirit had appeared. An eager soul releasing energy insisted that I look into my own future. The voices and the dog’s bark waned. I could hear nothing. No sound came from the box before me. Just faces; mine and that belonging to a stranger. Who was she? Why was she appearing with me? I needed answers, I had questions which I suspected were not going to be answered during that visit.
“Who are you?” I asked. A faint knock came from the opposite corner of the room.
“Mother?” She did not visit me often, yet I knew she was able to. I had not mourned after her death. She had been deteriorating over many years of suffering from an excruciating illness and we all felt at the time that her passing had been a blessing. Still, after twelve years, I felt she had not forgiven me for a lack of respect. We had so much catching up to do yet she made it hard for me when she refused to visit.
“Please give me a sign. Tap on the window. Is that you, mother?”
The faintest knock I could hear once more. It was as though she was with me. Yet she did not know if she would be welcome or not. I wanted her to communicate with me, tell me about her journey from the earth plane.
“Knock louder, mum.” I requested, becoming a little impatient with her modesty.
She did. It was a much more distinct knocking, hard against a table. My captor had released me from the chair and I was able to sit on the floor by the table in which I believed her to be near. I sat, crossed legged on the floor, resting my palms on the table top. Still no sound. The woman’s face on the television had become melancholy; my own face appeared to be fading. I was feeling cold. So cold. The heated radiators seemed to make no difference. Something touched my head. Unseen hands stroked the top of my head, running fingers carefully through my hair. Spirit was above me, guarding me from a future I had yet to unveil
.©Copyright CJ 2007
I had finished familiarising myself with my new home, it was time to set up my reading room and begin my work. A small room downstairs sufficed, red velvet curtains already hung at large sash windows. The carpet would need replacing in time and perhaps the fireplace would need to be rediscovered but its atmosphere felt perfect for visiting spirits. I positioned a small square table in the middle of the room. Two chairs facing each other, currently unoccupied. A lace table cloth draped in heavy splendour, of old fashioned appearance, found amongst a chest of antique fabrics. I placed my Crystal Ball upon pewter stand in the middle of the table. A large candle holder with ivory candle adorned the mantle, alone and eager.
Perfect. All I needed now was people to grace me with their excited presence, looking forward to finding out which loved ones were able to bare their soul. I sat in that room for a while. Meditation came easy in such calm surroundings. Taken to a world of vivid imaginings, my mind’s eye was able to distinguish between our earth plane and the plane in which our spirit friends now had no choice but to reside. Lush green grass, morning dew still evident as sheep feasted upon blades and cud; a stream, gently flowing, carrying fallen sticks over rocks which had embedded over the years; blue skies; a yellow sun pointing her rays at poppies and wheat in the fields beyond.
I sat, flat-footed against the floor, my shoulders back and my hands resting on each knee. I could not hear a thing. I could not hear the water in my imaginary stream, or the birds which chatted in their wake. I knew something was not right. The calm was upon me as a storm brewed in my head. I needed to come out of my meditative state, find reality once more, ask why I had been presented with this unwelcome feeling.
As I lifted my feet from the floor, moving my head to see the Crystal before me, the picture appeared, clear and instantly visible, my mind’s eye drawing in to understand what was about to happen. A broken heart. Tears. It was all too predictable; too corny. I had seen broken hearts before, many times. But there was no one else in the room. I could feel no spirits beside me, I could find no explanation for a broken heart. I dismissed it. Put it down to the Crystal being in new surroundings; my own surroundings being new to my self.
As I opened the blue velvet cloth in which to securely return the Crystal, I wondered if my ears were deceiving me. I could hear the faint sound of a woman crying. It was so faint I could only just make it out and had I have been able to hear other sounds in the room, I would most certainly not have heard this one. The woman sobbed as the sound became more distinct. Covering up the Crystal, the sound appeared much clearer; a haunting cry for help.
“Who are you?” My words prompted the sobbing to stop. “Spirit. Come forward.” I looked around the room. I hoped a sign would appear of an astral presence; anything; tapping, knocking, even poltergeist activity. I was eager to know whether my reading space had been appreciated by my spirit friends.
“Please give me a sign.” I made some suggestions. “Perhaps knock on the table. Maybe you could push the candlestick from the mantle.”
It was clear after fifteen minutes of patience that the crying woman either no longer felt comfortable in her communicative encounter or she simply did not have enough energy to answer my calls. I hoped she would return, maybe she would realise she was able to draw from my energy and communicate with me in confidence.
That evening, the sun made her beautiful descent beyond the hills, lighting up the once blue sky with fire opals in abundance. I wondered how God could have created something so intense yet allowed our neighbours to shed blood in battle. I wondered about God often. How some of us walked amongst the spirits, made friends with another dimension whilst others laughed, unable to understand their astral cousins. I thought about the world so breathtaking yet abused by destructive hands, buildings of such captivating interest yet at the end of their existence as they lay destroyed by religious anger.
The television switched on by itself that night. It had often performed that highly amusing trick in my previous home but since I had moved here, it was my own hands that had brought it to life. However, this time it had decided not to wait. Perhaps there was something worth watching, something I would find interesting.
It switched onto a channel currently showing a film. A romance starring well known actors yet one in which I would have chosen to avoid. I gave the film the benefit of the doubt and made myself comfortable. The remote control lay next to me, waiting with bated breath as I found it impossible to take it in my grasp. I did not want to sit through this film. I wanted to watch a documentary which was due to be shown on the other side. I would find it more interesting, romantic films were not my thing.
The sound increased. I found myself surrounded by voices, but not just romantics who were now looking into each other’s eyes on the magic screen. The walls around me had started to speak. Women’s voices, children laughing, men asking questions. I could hear a dog bark. The room had found life. Still unable to reach the remote control I had no choice. The picture on the television began to fade as new imagery presented itself to me, two new faces, radiant with bliss. But one of the faces was beginning to look familiar. The hair colour; the brown eyes; the long profile. It was me. I did not recognise the other face; a woman’s features, quite beautiful, elegant perhaps.
Spirit had appeared. An eager soul releasing energy insisted that I look into my own future. The voices and the dog’s bark waned. I could hear nothing. No sound came from the box before me. Just faces; mine and that belonging to a stranger. Who was she? Why was she appearing with me? I needed answers, I had questions which I suspected were not going to be answered during that visit.
“Who are you?” I asked. A faint knock came from the opposite corner of the room.
“Mother?” She did not visit me often, yet I knew she was able to. I had not mourned after her death. She had been deteriorating over many years of suffering from an excruciating illness and we all felt at the time that her passing had been a blessing. Still, after twelve years, I felt she had not forgiven me for a lack of respect. We had so much catching up to do yet she made it hard for me when she refused to visit.
“Please give me a sign. Tap on the window. Is that you, mother?”
The faintest knock I could hear once more. It was as though she was with me. Yet she did not know if she would be welcome or not. I wanted her to communicate with me, tell me about her journey from the earth plane.
“Knock louder, mum.” I requested, becoming a little impatient with her modesty.
She did. It was a much more distinct knocking, hard against a table. My captor had released me from the chair and I was able to sit on the floor by the table in which I believed her to be near. I sat, crossed legged on the floor, resting my palms on the table top. Still no sound. The woman’s face on the television had become melancholy; my own face appeared to be fading. I was feeling cold. So cold. The heated radiators seemed to make no difference. Something touched my head. Unseen hands stroked the top of my head, running fingers carefully through my hair. Spirit was above me, guarding me from a future I had yet to unveil
.©Copyright CJ 2007
Monday, 29 October 2007
The Reading
My client arrived on a windswept Wednesday night, too many clouds in the cold night sky shading the moon from its silvery glow. It could have been a little more atmospheric as Teresa Tate closed her car door. I welcomed her into my home. The heat from the Aga beckoned her to remove a quilted jacket from her back.
“Tea?”
“Excellent!”
“Sugar?”
“No thanks.”
I could sense she was somewhat nervous as she watched tentatively while I filled the kettle. She was eager to get started. I needed to calm her, offer her a little psychological friendship. There was nothing worse than an over enthusiastic client, forever expecting Spirit to appear.
“Let’s sit down for a while,” I suggested, placing two mugs of hot tea on the kitchen table. Mrs Tate’s chair scraped across the tiled floor as she anxiously perched herself upon leather seat. I looked at her. Perhaps I should have offered her a brandy.
“Before we start the reading, I would ask you not to give me any names of family members, or indeed those departed. Should we be fortunate enough to connect with Spirit tonight, I shall give you confirmation of this by giving you information about them. But please don’t be disappointed if no one comes through. It doesn't always happen. We can not order the Spirits to connect, it is their wish only.”
I think she understood. It was time we moved into the reading room, my peaceful space where I would welcome Spirit into my home. This woman had come to me specifically to contact her husband. I knew this the moment we walked into that little room. He stood by the window. His hands stroked the velvet curtains in his bid for me to mention them. He had only eyes for his wife. I might not have been there but for my ability to communicate with him. I could not see his feet, his legs ended mid calf as he appeared to float several inches above the floor. A stocky man, tall and broad shouldered. Grey hair, a few strands of which lapped over his head. His eyes were kind. He wore a black suit and tie, typical funeral attire.
“Sit down, Teresa.”
"I'm a bit nervous," her voice almost gave way to a fraudulent laugh.
“I want to ask you a few questions about your husband.”
“Is he here?” Her sensational enthusiasm overwhelmed me as I tried hard to keep the connection. Trying to ignore her I continued.
“I feel you buried your husband in a velvet lined coffin."
“He’s here isn’t he? Please tell me he’s here.”
“I do believe he is. But please stay calm. Let me see if I can make a better connection.”
The Spirits could often be deterred by anxiousness. I so wanted Mrs Tate to go home that night, content that her husband had visited her and satisfied that the work I offered was legitimate. Sniggers and negativity no longer worried me. I had learned to live with it over the years of my mediumship, but I, like anyone, felt happier if my clients believed my power to communicate with the departed.
Mr Tate stepped forward. Cut off legs hovered above my Axminster carpet as the rest of his body moved to stand beside his wife. He continued to stare at her. He placed his hand on her shoulder. She shuddered.
“Your husband is at your side.” I psychically encouraged her not to move. He was ready to communicate.
I looked up at him. So did she. Her eyes scanning the corner of the room. She believed he was there, even though she could not see him. I knew I could communicate now, they were both ready.
His voice, strong and deep, emitted in my head. As his lips moved, the sound could only be heard by me, the sound of his breathing as he spoke. If he had not spoken I would have confirmed to his wife that he was happy and well. His eyes told me as much yet now I was hearing his words.
“Your husband wants you to know he is no longer suffering. The cancer has gone and his body feels young again.”
My client began to cry. I should have known she would. It can be a very traumatic time to know a loved one is still around, even though they have left the physical world.
“Teresa?” I asked, with care, my hand resting on her arm. “Why did you put the clock in the hall?”
“He bought me that, just before he died. I wanted to look at it every day so I moved it near the front door.”
“He wants you to replace it with a picture. He does not want you to be upset each time you use the front door.”
She looked disappointed. Perhaps a little annoyed. I begged this soul to relay more information. I needed something to make his wife smile again. Something she could tell her children when they asked about her reading with the medium. Spirit showed me a picture of their wedding day. A black and white photograph in which they looked blissfully happy. I gave her this information, at last making her lips turn up, her eyes sparkle. And then he showed me another photograph. Of a baby. Their baby. A daughter, born to them thirty years previously. I told her about the baby photograph. The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
“Why is he showing me this photograph?” I asked myself, silently. I did not want Mrs Tate to tell me, even though, as the question had appeared in my mind, I knew there was something sinister in her husband’s confirmation.
I looked at my client. Her face ashen, she looked at me. Her arms folded. Her legs crossed. Spirit took a step backwards. He no longer wanted to comfort his wife. He no longer wanted her to feel his surrounding energy. His eyes had become harsh and the answer was staring me in the face.
“I couldn’t tell him.” Mrs Tate sobbed as we made our way back to the kitchen. Spirit had left the room. Communication had ceased. The reading had drained my energy, taken my soul and used it to punish this woman who wanted so much to make contact with her departed husband.
“Would you like some more tea?”
“No, I need to go home. How much do I owe you?”
I did not read for an individual in order to take money from their trusting hands. It was not my way. I had given this poor woman only half an hour of my time and she stood before me with an open purse. I refused her money. And she changed her mind about the tea.
“It can sometimes be a relief to talk to strangers about your inner most feelings. Your husband will visit again, of that I am sure.”
“The child is not his.”
It was no surprise. The look on Spirit’s face as he backed away from his grieving wife told me why he had come to see her. As he left, he impressed thoughts upon me. Thoughts I was certain would cause more pain for Teresa Tate after she had obviously been through so much already. Had he not been away at sea those thirty years ago, his own brother would not have felt compelled to care for his sister-in-law. She may not have been tempted therefore, to conduct an affair with her brother-in-law of which resulted in the birth of a child. And of course, for three decades, Teresa Tate had allowed her own husband to live as the child’s true father. My vow never to judge remained and I sat down at the kitchen table that night, until 1am, listening to a total stranger reveal the truth about her life as Mrs Tate.
©Copyright CJ 2007
“Tea?”
“Excellent!”
“Sugar?”
“No thanks.”
I could sense she was somewhat nervous as she watched tentatively while I filled the kettle. She was eager to get started. I needed to calm her, offer her a little psychological friendship. There was nothing worse than an over enthusiastic client, forever expecting Spirit to appear.
“Let’s sit down for a while,” I suggested, placing two mugs of hot tea on the kitchen table. Mrs Tate’s chair scraped across the tiled floor as she anxiously perched herself upon leather seat. I looked at her. Perhaps I should have offered her a brandy.
“Before we start the reading, I would ask you not to give me any names of family members, or indeed those departed. Should we be fortunate enough to connect with Spirit tonight, I shall give you confirmation of this by giving you information about them. But please don’t be disappointed if no one comes through. It doesn't always happen. We can not order the Spirits to connect, it is their wish only.”
I think she understood. It was time we moved into the reading room, my peaceful space where I would welcome Spirit into my home. This woman had come to me specifically to contact her husband. I knew this the moment we walked into that little room. He stood by the window. His hands stroked the velvet curtains in his bid for me to mention them. He had only eyes for his wife. I might not have been there but for my ability to communicate with him. I could not see his feet, his legs ended mid calf as he appeared to float several inches above the floor. A stocky man, tall and broad shouldered. Grey hair, a few strands of which lapped over his head. His eyes were kind. He wore a black suit and tie, typical funeral attire.
“Sit down, Teresa.”
"I'm a bit nervous," her voice almost gave way to a fraudulent laugh.
“I want to ask you a few questions about your husband.”
“Is he here?” Her sensational enthusiasm overwhelmed me as I tried hard to keep the connection. Trying to ignore her I continued.
“I feel you buried your husband in a velvet lined coffin."
“He’s here isn’t he? Please tell me he’s here.”
“I do believe he is. But please stay calm. Let me see if I can make a better connection.”
The Spirits could often be deterred by anxiousness. I so wanted Mrs Tate to go home that night, content that her husband had visited her and satisfied that the work I offered was legitimate. Sniggers and negativity no longer worried me. I had learned to live with it over the years of my mediumship, but I, like anyone, felt happier if my clients believed my power to communicate with the departed.
Mr Tate stepped forward. Cut off legs hovered above my Axminster carpet as the rest of his body moved to stand beside his wife. He continued to stare at her. He placed his hand on her shoulder. She shuddered.
“Your husband is at your side.” I psychically encouraged her not to move. He was ready to communicate.
I looked up at him. So did she. Her eyes scanning the corner of the room. She believed he was there, even though she could not see him. I knew I could communicate now, they were both ready.
His voice, strong and deep, emitted in my head. As his lips moved, the sound could only be heard by me, the sound of his breathing as he spoke. If he had not spoken I would have confirmed to his wife that he was happy and well. His eyes told me as much yet now I was hearing his words.
“Your husband wants you to know he is no longer suffering. The cancer has gone and his body feels young again.”
My client began to cry. I should have known she would. It can be a very traumatic time to know a loved one is still around, even though they have left the physical world.
“Teresa?” I asked, with care, my hand resting on her arm. “Why did you put the clock in the hall?”
“He bought me that, just before he died. I wanted to look at it every day so I moved it near the front door.”
“He wants you to replace it with a picture. He does not want you to be upset each time you use the front door.”
She looked disappointed. Perhaps a little annoyed. I begged this soul to relay more information. I needed something to make his wife smile again. Something she could tell her children when they asked about her reading with the medium. Spirit showed me a picture of their wedding day. A black and white photograph in which they looked blissfully happy. I gave her this information, at last making her lips turn up, her eyes sparkle. And then he showed me another photograph. Of a baby. Their baby. A daughter, born to them thirty years previously. I told her about the baby photograph. The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
“Why is he showing me this photograph?” I asked myself, silently. I did not want Mrs Tate to tell me, even though, as the question had appeared in my mind, I knew there was something sinister in her husband’s confirmation.
I looked at my client. Her face ashen, she looked at me. Her arms folded. Her legs crossed. Spirit took a step backwards. He no longer wanted to comfort his wife. He no longer wanted her to feel his surrounding energy. His eyes had become harsh and the answer was staring me in the face.
“I couldn’t tell him.” Mrs Tate sobbed as we made our way back to the kitchen. Spirit had left the room. Communication had ceased. The reading had drained my energy, taken my soul and used it to punish this woman who wanted so much to make contact with her departed husband.
“Would you like some more tea?”
“No, I need to go home. How much do I owe you?”
I did not read for an individual in order to take money from their trusting hands. It was not my way. I had given this poor woman only half an hour of my time and she stood before me with an open purse. I refused her money. And she changed her mind about the tea.
“It can sometimes be a relief to talk to strangers about your inner most feelings. Your husband will visit again, of that I am sure.”
“The child is not his.”
It was no surprise. The look on Spirit’s face as he backed away from his grieving wife told me why he had come to see her. As he left, he impressed thoughts upon me. Thoughts I was certain would cause more pain for Teresa Tate after she had obviously been through so much already. Had he not been away at sea those thirty years ago, his own brother would not have felt compelled to care for his sister-in-law. She may not have been tempted therefore, to conduct an affair with her brother-in-law of which resulted in the birth of a child. And of course, for three decades, Teresa Tate had allowed her own husband to live as the child’s true father. My vow never to judge remained and I sat down at the kitchen table that night, until 1am, listening to a total stranger reveal the truth about her life as Mrs Tate.
©Copyright CJ 2007
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)