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Blake and I recently made a trip to my hometown of Savannah – A Haunted Trip to a Haunted House in a Haunted City.

One of the highlights was seeing Georgia, a dear friend of mine from years ago. Georgia moved away with her family when we were children. Now that she’s grown, widowed and has three children of her own, she returned to our lovely little haunted town.

George doesn’t see ghosts. But she doesn’t mind that I do. That always endeared me to her.

While Blake went to meet an eccentric client, I met Georgia at her home in the historic district. She and her two girls had moved into her parents’ elegant home which had been sitting empty most of the year. Her parents love to travel. So, when Georgia’s husband died they insisted she move back and live in the home where she had been raised. “It will bring you good luck,” her mother told her. “And we can help you raise those sweet girls. Turn them back into proper Southerners.”

When I first saw Georgia, I also saw someone else in the room. Her deceased husband, Andrew. He hadn’t crossed over yet. Great.

Georgia never told me how he died. Well, she said he had pneumonia. But I knew she was hedging. There’s always more to every story.

Andrew didn’t hedge, though. “I was gay,” he said while Georgia and I hugged hello. “Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I’m just so sorry.” He was near frantic.

I didn’t tell her. Not at first. Telling someone, even a close friend someone that you know their intimate secrets, is kind of a buzz kill. Especially if you launch into that kind of information too soon in the conversation.

But after a glass or two of Prosecco in the sun room…

“So, Andrew passed. I’m so sorry, Georgia. How are you and the girls handling everything?”

“Oh, fine. Fine. You know it’s hard. But he was sick. They didn’t want him to suffer anymore.”

“What else do they know, sweetheart?” I placed my hand on Georgia’s hand and the tears fell almost immediately.

“Is he here?” Georgia rubbed at her red cheeks. “I feel him with me all the time. I know he’s still around.”

“He’s here.” I said as I gave her hand a light squeeze. “He says he’s sorry.”

“Oh, God, Andrew. I’m not mad. Not anymore. I just need this nightmare to be over. He was so – sick.”

“He had AIDS?” I asked.

Georgia nodded.

“Are you and the girls healthy?”

“Oh, yes. We’re fine. You know the sex left our marriage a long time ago. Obviously I now know why. You know I thought he was older and single because he just hadn’t found the right girl, yet. Turned out his grandmother was going to write him out of her will if he didn’t get married. I was just the fool who couldn’t see what was really going on.”

Andrew stood behind her, shook his head vehemently and passed a critical message to me. “George, he’s saying that’s not the way it was. He’s saying it was his fault. That he didn’t mean to, but he fell in love with you. And he thought he could make this work. He just keeps saying he’s so sorry. Tell her I’m sorry.”

As usual, ghosts impart more meaning and story with feeling and pictures than with words. And Georgia and Andrew’s courtship presented itself for me like a mini-movie.

“You know, George. It’s like you to blame yourself when something goes awry. There’s a price we pay for doing that. Plus, Andrew’s saying this was his fault, not yours. And he seems to feel really badly about it.”

Andrew showed me his life before Georgia, lots of men, lots of dating. And then – whoa. Someone that looks like a wealthy older woman.

“George, his grandmother – she has silver hair and it looks like three gold rings on each hand?”

“Oh, that’s her.” Georgia rolled her eyes and shook her head.

I took a deep breath as Andrew smiled and sent me his message.

“George, you’re about to be a very wealthy woman.”

“What do you mean?” Georgia wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“Andrew tells me he’s on his way to meet his grandmother. He’s part of her welcoming committee.”

Georgia’s eyebrows climbed as high as her Botox injections would allow. “She’s about to die?”

I nodded and laughed a little as Andrew broke out in a fit of laughter. “He says you’ll inherit everything she leaves behind.”

“I can hear him laughing,” she said. “You know, just a little. Like a distant echo.”

“That’s him.” I said.

I watched Andrew lean down and kiss Georgia on the cheek. “I’m sorry, love. I really do love you.”

Georgia rubbed her fingertips against her cheek and a double breath escaped her lips.

“He really did love us.”

“He really did, sweetheart.”

 

 

http://paranormal.lovetoknow.com/List_Haunted_Houses_in_Georgia 

Oh! I almost forgot to tell you about the trenches we visited while we were in Ypres. Quite a few WWI ghost soldiers were there as well. Just below Hill 60 are the trenches that were used by the allied units. They are – or were – filled with the ghosts of WWI Soldiers.

We started our tour by walking through a museum filled with WWI artifacts. Considering the building was located just below Hill 60, I wondered if they collected many these items from the area around them. Perhaps they were excavated from the land.

Inside the small museum were mannequins wearing uniforms, carrying weapons. Some were posed in odd positions, as if they were being treated for a missing limb or other war wound. It was a bit much.

Some rooms held German uniforms and those rooms held a darkness that was hard to shake, even long after we’d left the area.

Once we found our way out to the trenches, it was truly like walking into a living cemetery.

Through my eyes I could see thousands of young boys still living life in the trenches. Ghost soldiers who had yet to leave. Many were wounded, some sat around smoking cigarettes. Most didn’t realize they were dead and were still fighting the war that had ended 100 years ago. No one knew how to get home.

The trenches are reinforced by metal sheets now, the sand bags that once held up the dirt walls are long gone. We wound along the trenched path, staying above ground most of the time. Another tourist was out there with us and she complained the whole time that she couldn’t breathe. She thought maybe she was having an asthma or anxiety attack. But that’s often the feeling people have when they’re surrounded by so many ghosts.The heaviness is almost unbearable.

When I felt I had a good understanding of how many soldiers were still there, I began to cross them over to the other side. In groups they went, sticking together as they had for the last century.

Often when I cross spirits over,  they begin to think of husbands and wives, children and other loved ones they miss. Those they know they’ll see again. But these boys were too young for wives. Their final thoughts before crossing over were of their mothers. These sweet boys missed their mothers.

After I’d crossed several thousand souls over that morning, we began to head back toward the museum, back the way we came in.

We ended up walking with the female tourist who had come in with us. “I don’t understand it,” she said as she looked around the trenches. “When we first got out here I could hardly breathe. I couldn’t even look across this area without cringing. There was just this thick, depressing energy here. I thought my asthma was acting up. But now that energy – it’s lifted. It’s light here, and -. I can breathe. I don’t know what happened.”

I smiled as we walked together. “I know what you mean.”

It’s always nice to have a little validation from those who can’t see what I see. Most can feel it when there’s a shift. And I love it when they comment on it.

Later that night we toured the Menin Gate and waited for The Last Post Ceremony to begin. We climbed the steps, studied the countless names on the walls. Servicemen from several countries and family members of the deceased soldiers began to line up with poppy wreaths in their hands, ready to place them at the gate.

http://www.greatwar.co.uk/events/menin-gate-last-post-ceremony.htm

I have to say that I rarely cry around death. I’ve been surrounded by the dead since birth, it doesn’t hold the same mystery and fear for me that it does for most. At the very least, ghosts have given me that wisdom. Life definitely goes on.

It was emotional when the bagpipes began to play, though. There’s just something about bagpipes that calls to the soul. But when the bugler played The Last Post, well, read on.

So, here is the part that got me. As the bugler began to play The Last Post, I leaned forward and asked the woman in front of me its meaning:

She said, “The ‘Last Post’ bugle call symbolizes the ‘end of the soldier’s day’ in so far as the dead soldier has finished his duty and can rest in peace.”

And that’s when I lost it.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget that day, or those beautiful boys. Thank God they’re home and can rest.

I didn’t know the history of The Last Post. In case you didn’t either, here is a brief bit of its history:

The tradition of the final bugle call of the day signalling the end of the soldier’s day dates back to the 17th century when the British Army was on campaign in the Netherlands. There was already a Dutch custom in existence called “Taptoe”. This was a signal at the end of the day to shut off the beer barrel taps and the name comes from the Dutch “Doe den tap toe” – “turn the tap off”. From that time the British Army adopted a routine of also sounding drum beats as the officer on duty made his rounds in the evening to check sentry posts and to call off-duty soldiers out of the pub and back to their billets. When the bugle call of ‘Last Post’ was sounded at the final sentry post inspection this was the final warning that everyone should be back in their billets.

 

 

 

Morning, New York. Morning, Espresso. Morning, Ghost. Yes, that’s my normal, paranormal morning.

http://instagram.com/p/r1TpKOzZEk/?modal=true

Usually they show up armed with stories ready to share.

Apparently being a good listener has its drawbacks.

Sipping my favorite Italian espresso, staring out at the park. Listening to my own thoughts and preparing for my day.

When suddenly someone is behind me. A male. Recently deceased.

There’s a unique vibe about those that haven’t been dead that long. A freshness to their energy, a curiousness. They’re also still pretty guided in that stage. There’s still room for them to go on home quickly.

So, this guy didn’t have a story to share. Which was unusual. He just stood there behind me. Staring. Waited for me to say something to him.

I don’t usually have anything kind to say to strangers who wander into my home.

Not many people would.

But something about him seemed – vulnerable. Sad.

So, I was gentle with him.

From reading his energy – without looking at him – I would have thought him older. 80’s, maybe. But when I turned to look at him his appearance was younger. His hair was dark. His skin unwrinkled.

This is often the norm when an older person dies. They begin to appear as they did when they felt their best in life. Usually their 30s or 40s. They appear as they saw themselves.

Usually ghosts want something from me. Sometimes they want to share their story. Sometimes they have unfinished business from their life and they think I can help them. Sometimes they just need to connect with someone since most of their existence is spent not being heard, seen or noticed.

But this guy – he didn’t want anything.

I found that unusual until I opened my email and discovered why.

http://www.pinterest.com/pin/397020523373410067/

There was an email my mother had forwarded me from one of her relatives.

Her cousin had died the night before.

I had been praying for him and his family.

He died while on the ventilator. Suddenly his BP just crashed and there wasn’t anything they could do to help him.

Before being put on the ventilator he had told his wife he didn’t want to leave her.

I had never met my mother’s cousin. That is, until he appeared in my kitchen this morning. (I get to meet a lot of interesting people this way…) I guess he knew to find me because I had been thinking about him. Ghosts can follow your thoughts. They see everything.

He was worried about his family. Sad to leave his wife of 60 years.

There’s often a kind of shock that happens when a spirit leaves its body. But with a little time, they begin to soften.

Once he has a little more time around his loved ones, is able to see and feel the love they have for him. He’ll adjust. And probably cross over just fine.

 

 

 

Outtake of The Fine Art of Deception – a paranormal romance series with psychics and ghosts!

* * *
I picked up Paintings of the Louvre from the coffee table and flipped open to the Italian School section. I traced my fingers over the Canaletto paintings on the page and wished on every star that I could touch them in person. Just for a moment.

Because I had been born with a gift. Several gifts, really. But the gift of psychometry was easily my favorite. All I had to do was give any item a light touch, and its story began to pour forth. With art, even through standard-issue white cotton gloves the energy traveled like lightning through my circuits, showing me a chronological movie of the object’s life, the artist’s personality and mental process, the highs and lows of their life, how and why the art was created and so on.
Sheer nirvana.
There really was no end to the details I could see about the art, its history and its creator, as long as I had the hunger to know them.
And that I had. Because connecting with art was the only meaningful connection I had with people.
(Of course I could see the history of other objects, too. But those histories weren’t nearly as much fun to see.)
If I got this job, not only would I be happy every day of my career, but maybe I could even make a career for myself authenticating art. That was my theory, anyway. No one had to know how I did it. Then my masquerade as normal would succeed.
The city lights twinkled. Only a few cars drove by. I sank into the silence and safety of my home, and began to mentally prepare for my day. I shifted my body weight, and brought my legs under me.
Sometimes it took me a minute to realize who still had a body and who was masquerading as though they did. They all looked the same to me. Which only made me question my sanity. And sometimes my intelligence.
“No, no, no, no, no,” I whispered into my empty apartment and dug my nails into my pale hands as the truth hit me. It was never a welcome surprise when I did figure it out. “Not today. Not this morning.” I turned away from the window and held my breath. Not breathing always made me think I could fool them into believing I wasn’t here.

I don’t know why. They were dead. Not stupid.

http://www.pinterest.com/pin/397020523373194375/