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After discussing many other things, my client left, promising to phone me if what I had said about the duvet cover was true.
Later that night the phone rang. I recognized the voice immediately. It was Mrs Ball. ‘I just wanted to tell you,’ she said. ‘I went home and it was all exactly as you said. The cover was on the corner of the bed – not made up – but lying there, ironed and folded the way I had left it. I know for a fact that I left the cover on the ironing board!’
Mrs Ball now had clear evidence her husband wasn’t far from her – something she so desperately needed to know. And, in heaven, as he had been on earth, he was such a meticulously tidy soul.
Sweet Caroline
Caroline immediately admitted that she had never consulted a paranormal expert before so would I forgive her if she seemed nervous? She told me that, quite frankly, she was terrified. I talked calmly to her, telling her there was nothing to worry about. I would be gentle with her!
Minutes into the consultation, I became aware of a spirit. I knew this spirit was anxious, too, as its body language was uncomfortable. It quickly became clear to me that the spirit was that of a young male. His cause of death initially seemed a bit of a mystery, but as I slowly began to relay his words to Caroline, it became increasingly obvious.
First he spoke of his ‘beloved’ motorbike (I immediately felt Caroline’s tension at the mention of that word). Gary’s name was mentioned and again I told Caroline that. She merely nodded, looking grief-stricken. ‘Gary’s body is whole again, Caroline,’ I tentatively told her. ‘What is not whole is his conscience. He seems devastated by his death.’
At this point I thought that of course he would be devastated. Here was a handsome young man, his life in front of him – a whole life tragically cut short in a horrifying way. ‘Gary says you must stop fretting and regretting that you didn’t view his body. This was his wish. Although you were broken-hearted at his sudden death, I know more sadness followed when you changed your mind about seeing his body but were refused permission. Gary would not have wanted you to see him like that. The only person to see Gary in his coffin was his brother, and that was purely for identification purposes. No one got to see him, not you, nor any of his close friends and none of his family. He was in a dreadful mess physically.’
I can only describe Caroline’s face by saying it was chalk white. She gave a tiny sob and I begged her not to hold back the tears. I told her crying was a hugely important part of mourning and that she was doing herself no favours by holding her feelings in. Everyone was worried for her. Gary was worried for her!
‘I love him, Katie, I truly loved him!’ I remember Caroline’s broken words to this day. Oh, how they tug on my heart-strings. All I wanted to do was go over to Caroline, put my arms around her and take her very severe, almost tangible pain away from her.
However, I continued to relay what Gary was saying. ‘Did Karen make it?’ he asked. He seemed to have no way of knowing whether Karen was alive or dead.
‘He seems worried about Karen. He’s asking if she made it? What does he mean by that?’
It turned out Karen was his pillion passenger – a friend from his early childhood. Caroline just nodded. I passed the vague message back to Gary, assuring him that Karen had made it.
‘I told him not to buy that motorbike,’ Caroline almost spat the words. She seemed angry now, angry that her loved one had been taken. I still wasn’t 100 per cent sure what the exact cause of death was, although I was fitting the pieces together. At this point I heard the screeching of tyres, then a sudden bang, several different types of screams and breaking glass. The sound of metal hitting metal made me cringe. Then everything went silent. I knew for sure now that Gary had been on his motorbike and had fatally crashed.
I then heard him ask about the van. As soon as he mentioned the van, two pictures came into my mind. I saw a small, red, rusty-looking van. I also saw a little girl wearing a turquoise dress and hat. She couldn’t have been more than four or five.
‘Did Gary hit a van?’ Caroline nodded. ‘Was there a little girl in the van wearing a turquoise dress?’ Again, Caroline nodded. ‘Do you know where they are now, Caroline?’ Caroline looked up, tears streaming down her pained face and spoke in a childlike voice, ‘The little girl escaped with only cuts and bruises.’
‘And her father?’ I blurted out, not knowing who was in the van with the little girl.
‘He broke a few bones but he’s alive.’
‘Is Gary in any pain?’ Caroline asked. I heard him reply that he was free of pain. He proceeded to tell me that he knew very little at the end – it had all happened so quickly. All he remembers was seeing the little girl as the van swerved into his path. He didn’t see the driver, and after that he only vaguely remembers lying at the side of the road, obviously very injured but feeling extremely calm and happy. ‘My gran was there at the accident,’ Gary told me. I passed this on to Caroline, who told me that Gary had been devastated by the death of his beloved gran a matter of only months before his own death.
I explained to Caroline that Gary did not have to make the journey to heaven alone, that his gran had come to take him personally.
As Gary began to fade, I heard Neil Diamond singing ‘Sweet Caroline’. But, I didn’t know whether to tell Caroline this for fear it was gimmicky – it was an obvious song for a girl named Caroline. However, I did decide to tell her, and she said that it wasn’t corny at all. She could relate to it entirely as Gary had sung that song many times since they met. It was his favourite karaoke song (even before meeting Caroline), and he sang it to her less than a week before he died.
So ‘Sweet Caroline’ did indeed have significant meaning for my client.
Dearly Loved David
Mother and daughter sat opposite me, both crying sorely for the son and brother they had lost. David had been murdered, his life cut short before he had even reached the age of 20.
The first time these two clients came to see me, I couldn’t get David at all but I did manage to make contact with another young boy who relayed messages of David’s arrival and how he was in the throes of his healing process. This explained why David himself couldn’t come through. At this point, I was unsure if my clients felt any comfort.
A few months later, however, they came back. This time David was as large as life (pardon the irony). I knew someone was there because I was met with the very strong aroma of men’s aftershave. This wasn’t just any old aftershave either – it was much stronger than your everyday aftershave. I asked the significance of this and was informed that David wore cologne imported from the Far East. And the two agreed that it was indeed very potent and powerful stuff!
I then began to relay various messages from David. He told me about the bike race, which my clients watched him compete in a matter of weeks before his untimely death. I almost laughed when David told me about his dental appointment and how he had gone to great lengths to avoid it!
This cryptic message was explained when David’s mum told me that David had a dental appointment, the first in over 10 years, on the very day of his funeral – the appointment was scheduled for 2pm. What did happen instead that day – and at exactly 2pm – was that David’s body was lowered into the ground. No matter how poignant that sounds, David’s mum and sister managed to smile at the thought. They told me how terrified David had been of the dentist and how he had agreed to go purely because one tooth had given up the fight. It had been neglected for so long that it had to be extracted.
I then began to see an image of a motorbike. Standing in front of the bike was a tall guy, not unlike David facially. He was older than David but there was a definite strong resemblance. I could see the man’s face quite clearly – he was speaking into a mobile phone and, for some reason, I just felt that the conversation he was having related in some way to the motorbike.
I then heard David speak again. This time he told me, ‘Colin has sold his motorbike.’ Again, I relayed this to my clients, but they shook their heads, telling me Colin, David’s best friend, wouldn’t sell his motorbike – he loved it. However, I was convinced and stuck to my guns. Colin had sold, or was in the process of selling, the bike. My clients were still unconvinced.
They telephoned me that same evening to tell me that Colin had sold his motorbike – that very afternoon in fact! Apparently, some of his friends were going on a biking holiday and Colin couldn’t go as his bike wasn’t fit for the long journey.
The buyer had begged Colin to sell his bike to him. When Colin refused, the guy was so desperate, he offered nearly double the bike’s value. And who could refuse such an offer?
The Not-so-holy Nun
One thing that never ceases to amaze me is how forgiving some people can be. I’d like to think I am the forgiving type, but as a Leo, I must admit I find it hard more often than not. However, I am often humbled by stories of forgiveness I read and hear, as well as by some of my direct experiences in my work. One such story has stuck in my mind for years. I remember this one vividly, as if it were only yesterday.
To protect her identity, I shall call my client Jane. I immediately felt Jane was sincere and genuinely nice. She was relaxed and easy to talk to. I felt instantly comfortable with her. And yet her eyes were sad, distant-looking. I suspected she was hiding a gruesome memory, probably from her childhood.
We talked a great deal about where Jane’s life should be going and which moves were necessary to ensure she stood a chance of finding the correct path fate intended for her. A number of spirits became clear and I duly passed on the messages they gave. Nothing startling – a great-grandmother who described herself and the circumstances around her death; an old friend from school saying she was happy, and so on.
Throughout all this, however, I was extremely interested in another spirit who was reluctant, I felt, to make his or her presence known. All I could hear at first were their footsteps – as they walked, one foot came down heavier than the other. And, for some reason, I felt this spirit not only had a bad leg but also wore a strange-looking boot. The boot seemed an important piece of the jigsaw but when I heard why, I was utterly horrified.
As the consultation drew near its end, I sensed the spirit was much closer. I was then met with an image of a nun’s habit, beneath which came into view the boot I’d been hearing. The nun began to cry – quite uncontrollably. I began to pass all of this on to Jane. The nun interrupted, repeatedly saying how sorry she was, and could Jane ever forgive her. ‘Please forgive me,’ were words spoken with real feeling.
When I put all of this to Jane, she too had tears in her eyes. In my naivety, I could not fathom why a nun would have any cause to plead for forgiveness. Nuns were good people, weren’t they? As it turned out, this particular nun had been anything but a good person while alive. She had, in fact, been a very cruel woman.
I asked Jane the significance of the foot and whether she knew of a nun or of someone with a club foot. She told me that she had been raised in an orphanage run by nuns. One nun in particular – this spirit – did have a club foot. In fact, it was by using her club foot to kick or hold the children down that she administered her punishment.
I expressed my dismay. Surely children didn’t deserve such a cruel punishment? Jane readily agreed but she also told me – and it is the way she said this which has stuck so firmly in my mind – that she didn’t resent the nun. She wasn’t angry with the nun because she believes she knew no other kind of life. She was raised in the same way and therefore knew no alternative. Yes, she was strict and yes, she was cruel, but Jane forgave her.
I found this one particularly sad because it was clear that it wasn’t until this nun reached heaven that she realized her cruel and severe ways were wrong. She was obviously remorseful but I wonder just how many children she affected as badly, and how many didn’t grow up with Jane’s marvellous forgiving nature.
Jane is now a mother herself and, as you can imagine, is a wonderful, caring and patient parent.
The Elephant Man
I have to say that I find difficulty in using this subheading for the following story. My more sensitive side feels it’s cruel. However, as you read on you will see why I have decided to use it.
Linda Millar came to see me in July of 1999. The minute she walked in, I knew she had experienced a great loss. Her eyes were dark pools of sadness. I was instantly drawn into a feeling of immense grief, pain and loss. Linda had clearly lost someone she loved deeply. But there was more – at this point I didn’t know what, but somehow I knew I was about to find out.
After the usual brief small talk, I suddenly blurted out, seemingly from nowhere, ‘Tommy is here and at last you can have your questions answered.’ Tommy was clearly the person Linda had lost – the one she was in mourning for.
From the very outset, I felt left out of this consultation. I say this because Tommy so desperately wanted to pass on crucial messages to Linda, and Linda even more desperately wanted to hear his messages.
I heard Tommy speak clearly, ‘I really looked like the Elephant Man! I didn’t want you to see me looking like that.’ I remember being intrigued by the way he emphasized that he ‘really looked like the Elephant Man’.
I passed this on to Linda who began to cry uncontrollably. Then Tommy said, ‘I remember nothing. I felt no pain. In fact, I slept through the whole thing!’ After passing that on to Linda, she seemed calmer. She looked relieved. I must surely have looked perplexed!
It was my turn to ask for some answers. ‘What does all this mean?’ Linda went on to tell me that her beloved husband of only two years had died in a house fire – in their beautiful new marital home in fact. She had been at work and received a call halfway through her shift advising her of the tragedy. She raced to the hospital, terrified, fearing the worst. The worst was confirmed minutes after she arrived. Her darling husband had died in the fire. He was dead before they got to him.
The consultant at the hospital refused to let her see Tommy, a decision backed by other senior staff, police and members of her family. Linda admitted to me that she was just as devastated by that as she was by her husband’s death. She could not get over the fact that she never got to say goodbye and then was denied the right to see him in his coffin. They’d told her he was just too badly burned and that it was deemed entirely for her own good that she did not view his body.
When she asked if he had suffered, the consultant merely shook his head, admitting that they had no way of knowing. Poor Linda had visions several times a day of her beloved husband screaming, terrified, knowing he was locked in a blazing house with no way out. She had nightmares of him trying to escape but failing to do so. She imagined the fear, the pain, the awfulness of it all.
But now, on the day of her consultation, without prompting and without me actually having a clue about what was going on, Linda was finally told the truth about what happened that fateful night.
I asked Linda if she thought it a bit cruel of Tommy to say he looked like the Elephant Man – surely he couldn’t have been that bad. But Linda merely laughed and told me that Tommy had been a vain man, and as he had bushy hair, he spent a long time fixing it. He would joke in the morning, when his hair was all over the place, that he looked like the Elephant Man. Apparently, one side in particularly was very bushy and stuck out much more than the other side. So Linda reassured me that Tommy wasn’t being hard on himself, that he did in fact use the term jokingly.
I wonder just how badly marked Tommy was. It must have been bad if the medics refused to allow Linda to see him. At least she now knows he didn’t suffer, that he didn’t even know about the fire until after he died.
What comfort Linda must have felt that day. And thank goodness there is life after death, otherwise Linda would have gone on for years enduring the most horrendous nightmares and day visions, wrongly assuming that her husband had suffered a torturous death when, in fact, he had simply stayed asleep, quite oblivious to the blaze about to take his life.
Jim, My Gay Spirit
Messages from spirits come in all shapes and sizes – all styles and all sorts of different, unimaginable formats. One, which caused me and my client great hilarity, sticks in my mind. I still smile about it today, some four years after it occurred.
Jim from Glasgow arrived for his scheduled appointment. Without wishing to sound demeaning, he was ‘obviously’ gay. In fact, Jim took this as a compliment. To say that Jim was camp would be an understatement. He was clearly a colour freak, as I counted at least six different bold, bright colours on the clothes he was wearing. And his nature was equally colourful.
Jim was a delightful man but a sad man. He put on a brave face for the world but underneath his gaiety (pardon the pun) lay a very unhappy and lonely man.
Jim had lost his lifelong partner, also named Jim, just a few years earlier. My client wasn’t a young man. In fact, he was well over 60. In his words, being gay in those days wasn’t as easy as it is today. He had only ever known one partner and vowed he would end his days alone, as no one could ever replace his Jim. I believed him.
Jim told me his reason for visiting was that he so desperately needed to have proof that his partner was near him. I instantly told him that of course he was because I firmly believe the dead are so very near us. But Jim told me he desperately needed proof, real proof. He had visited many other psychics, clairvoyants and the like, but no one had given him anything of substance. ‘What makes him think I can’, I wondered. However, I knew I would try very hard because it was clear to me that this colourful, amusing chap in front of me was aching for some sign that his lover was nearby.
I didn’t have to wait long, for within a split second, the loudest, most gregarious, most delightful spirit joined us. In an acutely feminine voice, I heard words to the effect of ‘Why did you do that to the lounge? What possessed you? And those curtains, tuh! Those curtains.’ I could all but see this spirit’s hands rise in disbelief. ‘And get that bloody awful wheelchair out of our bedroom – I hated it when I was in it, so don’t make me have to look at it every minute of the day!’
Jim burst out laughing. This indeed sounded like his lifetime partner. He admitted that Jim was bossy, loud and brash, liked his own way and more, but he was so, so thrilled that he had come over.
Jim had kept his lover’s wheelchair – not for any sinister reason but because he felt it was such a part of him. Clearly the other Jim did not want it to be a part of him. My client told me it would be removed as soon as he got home – to his newly decorated lounge.
Spirit Jim had much more traditional taste. Although client Jim admitted he really hadn’t minded, their home was largely decorated to spirit Jim’s taste. After his death, Jim redecorated and completely changed the look of their home. It was evident that his dead lover did not approve, yet everything he said, albeit in a somewhat imperious manner, was really quite light-hearted. I somehow knew to take no offence from the spirit’s words, and clearly so did my client.
My client was by now much happier and the entire consultation was taken up by the spirit giving orders, making affectionate comments, then giving more orders. Clearly the two had loved one another deeply. We laughed a lot, and when Jim left, I thankfully saw that not only were his clothes colourful but his face, his eyes and undoubtedly his heart and soul also had a great deal more colour than when he’d arrived.
If you’re reading this, Jim, I hope you are coping with Jim’s orders, even now, beyond the grave.
Wartime Sweethearts
A lot of people wrongly assume that my kind of work is sought only by ‘women of a certain age’. This is certainly not the case. My clients are of all ages and come from many different walks of life. I have teenage boys, old men, professionals and manual workers among my clientele. So why am I telling you this? Read on …
Bertie came to me at a ripe old age. He was an agile man for his age, although arthritis had made him smaller as the years went by. The lines on his face defied his age but his heart was worn out, both physically and emotionally. His eyes were sad. In fact, I’d say his eyes were pretty dead. Gone was the sparkle I immediately saw when I imagined him as a much younger man.
Bertie came into my office and sat down. I was about to close the door behind him when I stopped as I felt the presence of another. I waited and unseeingly allowed the other person to follow us in. As they did so, I was engulfed by a smell I couldn’t name but which reminded me, for some reason, of my childhood.
This ‘other person’ floated past me. I heard her say, ‘Hello dear, I’m Elsie’ as clearly as Bertie had said, ‘Hi Katie, I’m Bertie’. But no, I didn’t go as far as to pull up another chair!
Naturally, I described everything I was seeing to my client, and to my surprise he told me he already knew. He told me Elsie had been his wife for most of his adult life. Together they had survived a war, the raising of seven children and many other hardships life had thrown at them. But they were strong and as much in love more than 60 years later as they had been the day they met.
Visions crossed my mind, many going back to when they were young. I simply sat and narrated to Bertie everything I was seeing. I saw their children, now grown, as little people playing in a park (this particular scene flashed before me many times and clearly I was seeing them over many years as the children were bigger each time). Bertie smiled at this as he remembered well the park I was seeing. He told me that the park no longer existed and that it had been turned into a housing estate.
One very profound scene involved Bertie as a handsome young man, dressed in war uniform. The couple looked sad, which was to be expected, but there was something about Elsie’s eyes that made me more inquisitive. I asked Bertie why I felt extremely sad, apart from the fact that he was going to war. My query was answered when Bertie told me that the day he left to go to war was the same day Elsie buried her mother.
If this story serves to teach me anything, it is that death needn’t be final. Bertie believes he has lost his wife – at least he’s lost her body – but he firmly believes her soul and everything she was inside is with him every waking moment. He still misses her, even though he is comforted by the presence of her spirit.
Sisters
Caroline had been troubled for some time. This was by someone or something that seemed to be following her everywhere. She had never believed in the spirit world. To her it was nonsense dreamed up by people with vivid imaginations who wanted to believe that their loved ones hadn’t left them. That was why she was so surprised when she first sensed that the shadow flitting round herself didn’t seem to belong to anything. This was just the start.
Caroline found herself haunted by someone who picked up pieces of jewellery from places where she had left them and put them down elsewhere, by a shadow which went into rooms ahead of her and put on the television – a ghost which seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. Caroline was terrified.
When she first came to me I was a little sceptical. Caroline lived alone and I thought she might be suffering from an over-exuberant imagination – one that saw ghosts in every corner. But then I became convinced. As the reading progressed, it seemed to me Caroline did have a spirit round her, and this was someone she should have known well, because it was a sister.
The trouble was, Caroline said she didn’t have a sister. She was, she said, ‘an only one’. This didn’t seem possible. The girl I was seeing was exactly like Caroline. In looks, in height, in weight, they might have been twins. I was amazed she could say there was no one in her family like this, that her parents had never had another child. What was more, it was coming across clearly to me that this sister had chosen to look out for Caroline since she moved away from home.
‘But you must have had a sister,’ I could only gasp. Like most of us, I hate being wrong, and in this instance Caroline’s insistence made me feel like a complete fool. Here I was, having actually set out not believing her story, now saying it was true and a non-existent sister was looking out for her.
I was very glad when Caroline left my office. This was one phantom that didn’t exist, a real ‘phantom phantom’, so to speak. I wanted to go and lie down in a darkened room and forget about ever doing a reading again!
I didn’t though. The next day I was back at it, with several new clients. I’d even managed to put Caroline out my mind when the phone rang and there she was. ‘You won’t believe this,’ she said. I confess I actually thought, ‘What is it now? More doings of the phantom sister?’ – quite uncharacteristically, I must add!
‘I expect this won’t much surprise you, but I do have a sister. I asked Mum.’
It turned out that Caroline was not an ‘only one’ after all. There had been a ‘first born’, a girl who, if she had lived, would have been two years older than Caroline. But she didn’t live. She died roughly a day after she was born. Caroline’s parents had been devastated. Then Caroline came along. With a typical ‘stiff upper lip’ they never again discussed the little girl they had lost, throwing all their energies into raising Caroline. And after a while there seemed very little point in mentioning it to her, until Caroline asked.
Yet her sister was very clearly with her. In fact, she had probably always been but was waiting for her moment, for the time when she felt she was needed. That was when she decided to make her presence known and do what every big sister does – look after the little one. It was as if she had decided that even death wasn’t going to stop her.
‘You must go back for Alison … she needs you’
When Kirsten first came to me, she’d no idea who this phantom Alison was. But she was very disturbed by the thought of her and by what had happened only a month before. So disturbed, she felt she had to seek help, at least to get it off her chest. The experiencewas so profound, she didn’t know where to turn. Although she knew that the people, or rather the spirits of the people, involved were her own dearly loved parents, the confusion was such, she was left wondering if she had imagined it all. I was convinced, however, that she wasn’t. When one of the things they said to her came about, what other proof was needed? When you hear this story, I’m sure you’ll agree, to quote the bard, ‘there are more things in heaven and earth …’.
Kirsten’s story begins on Christmas Eve. She had been allowed home from hospital just for the festive season to spend some time with her husband and children. Kirsten had been very ill. So ill that, at one point, staff had feared she would die. Kirsten didn’t die, however, but held on bravely. As Christmas approached, she begged to be allowed to go home. All the other members of her family – her beloved parents and grandparents – were dead, so she was especially desperate to be home with those she was devoted to. The hospital staff agreed, and at five o’clock that evening, the taxi carrying her drew up at the door of her house.
She was delighted to be home but she had not been there long when she began to feel unwell. The excitement of the trip had been too much for her and she begged to be allowed to go upstairs and lie down. Her temperature shot up. She became delirious and, as she did, realized she had made a mistake in asking to come home. Downstairs she could hear her husband and children laughing as they set up the table for the next day. Suddenly she felt strongly it was a meal she was never going to see.
As she grew progressively weaker, the room seeming to fade away before her, she attempted to rise from the bed. But she was weak and toppled over. Instead of falling down, however, she was aware of a strange sensation, as if she was floating. Suddenly, she didn’t care if she hurt herself. She was too weak to cry out for help. The feeling was wonderful – all her cares were draining away.
A mist grew up round her. As it did she saw that the room was swathed in layers and layers of white tulle – so beautiful, she gasped. Then she became aware of the figure coming towards her. It was her father, as clear as if he was still alive. Behind him, and looking exactly as she remembered him, was her beloved grandfather. Now Kirsten’s eyes filled with tears – ones of happiness though. She tried to reach through the mist towards them in the hope of touching their hands, but though they both looked happy enough to see her, her father shook his head. Kirsten remembers clearly the words he said.
‘You must go back. You will recover and you’ve much do to in your life before you can join us. You’re to go back for Alison, she needs you.’
Only at that point did Kirsten feel that she was being robbed. ‘But I don’t know any Alison,’ she said. ‘Please let me come with you.’
Her father shook his head. Kirsten felt the image fading. Then she must have fallen asleep. She was woken by her husband bringing the children in to show her some of the decorations they had been making for Christmas Day.
Kirsten had no idea whether what she had seen was a dream or not, but for the first time she felt better. The next day passed wonderfully for her and she went back into hospital to be told she was on the mend. She came to me because she wasn’t sure. There were things about what had happened she didn’t understand. Most importantly, she’d no idea who Alison was. She needed to find out.
‘Well, that’s not a problem,’ I told her. ‘I’m surprised you don’t know already. My vibes all tell me you’re pregnant.’
