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This was, of course, a great shock to Kirsten. She already had three children and a fourth – well, that would make things difficult, she felt. Was I sure?
‘I’m very sure!’ I told her. ‘What’s more, it’s a little girl.’
In this respect I was proved right. Kirsten did have a baby daughter, just under eight months later. Naturally, she called her Alison. Even then, as she remembered what had happened on that Christmas Eve, she still had cause to wonder about many things. Had she really been as close to death as all that? Was what she saw a vision of heaven? Did her parents and grandparents really watch over her?
Eventually, as Alison grew into a lovely little girl, there were no doubts. ‘That’s granddad,’ she said one day, pointing out a picture of Kirsten’s dad, one that had been taken three months before his death. ‘He wasn’t well then.’
‘Yes,’ Kirsten was amazed. ‘But how do you know?’
The little girl smiled. ‘Because I’ve met him.’
The Man who Went to his Own Funeral
Old John McFarlane was a very determined man – so determined, in fact, that he went to his own funeral and was seen there by no fewer than four people. I got to hear of it when one of them came to me for a reading.
Since she was his daughter, it seemed natural that Shona would be one of the first to notice the man in respectful black, standing at the fringes of the crowd. He was only there for a second or two but, to quote her own words, ‘she knew her own father when she saw him’.
John McFarlane had been ill for some time and had died only a few days earlier. But it seemed he wanted to go to the funeral. Why? It was something I immediately wanted to know. Even before I had put the question, however, Shona told me. ‘He wanted to see who was there,’ she said. How did she know? Well, apparently, John came to her in a dream two days later and told her. He was a bit of a mischievous charmer. That much I certainly picked up on from the reading, where he came over to me and said there was no harm done, he hadn’t intended to frighten anyone!
Shona came to see me because she was worried about her mum. Since the funeral, this lady’s health had gone downhill – she had seen John that day but that was not the reason for her deterioration in health. With someone as strong-willed as John about, it seemed silly not to ask him. Clear as day, I heard him say, ‘She just misses me!’ He also kept using the word ‘dream’. I believed he was communicating through this medium, using it to tell Shona to get in touch with him, through me, if there was anything worrying her at all.
My own vibes, incidentally, weren’t bad. I could see many happy occasions for Shona’s family in the future, all with her mum there. This suggested to me that whatever illness her mum had, it was temporary. In this I was proved correct.
The next time Shona contacted me, she was in a state. Her dad had come to her, again in a dream, and explained there was nothing seriously wrong with her mum and she wasn’t to worry. But then he had told her he didn’t know if he would be back, although he would always watch out for her. It was almost as if he’d got himself into bother by attending his own funeral. I had to admit it was quite daring of him really. In all my work with the paranormal, I’d not come across it very often.
When Shona came for another reading, this time there was no sign of John. He’d quite clearly said his goodbyes to her, several times really, if the appearance at the funeral and the dreams were anything to go by. And, in its way, although his actual appearance at the funeral had been unnerving, it was oddly comforting too.
It had said to Shona that her dad was with her always and that death was only a veil between them. Knowing that had helped her through a difficult time and allowed her to help her mum. In many ways John’s appearances were a gift, one she had been grateful to receive.
‘Peter Put the Kettle on’
We’ve all heard of Polly and her little friend Sukey’s antics with the kettle, but this is the lesser-known tale of Peter who much preferred ‘teasmaids’ when it came to boiling up a cup of tea. Peter was the husband of a client of mine. He had been dead for sixmonths when she came to see me. Although grieving she had a secret that made it easier for her to accept Peter’s death. This was the belief that he wasn’t really gone. In fact, he’d never been gone. From the first time she heard him turning over in bed to switch on the machine for their morning cuppa, she knew.
The couple had always had a teasmaid, one of those little machines that makes the morning cup of tea. And they’d liked having one so much, they had one on each side of the bed. First of all, the radio alarm would go off; then Peter would reach over and put on both teasmaids and the teapots would start to churn. Regular as clockwork, every morning, he made this his first duty.
After Peter’s death, both machines stopped working! Obviously, this wasn’t normal and it greatly upset my client. That was why, having shed tears about it, she was so astonished a few days later when she heard the switch click on her own teasmaid and the chug chug of the mechanism as if it was brewing up a cuppa. She sat up but there was no one there. Her teasmaid was on – something she hadn’t done and it couldn’t have done itself.
At first my client thought she was dreaming. The next morning, however, she heard the ping of the switch, then the chug chug of the cuppa brewing itself. Again, she sat up and, as she did, she also heard footsteps going down the stairs. For a moment she froze. Was someone in the house? The sound was very like Peter. Then she heard the hall window being opened and she smiled. Peter had always done that when he was alive. Now she was certain. He hadn’t really gone.
My client has continued from that day to this to hear Peter. There isn’t a morning that goes by without the teasmaid clicking into action. His has still never worked, which makes it all the more strange that hers always switches itself on! After a few moments, she hears him going down the stairs.
On other occasions, too, when she has been unbearably lonely, she says, ‘I have felt him snuggle into my back and put his arms protectively around me. I know some people will say this is wishful thinking, but it’s not. I know he’s there.’
I think it would take a particularly cold-hearted cynic to disagree. I can tell you now I’ve always believed her. Not just because of the business with the teasmaid but because of the amount of letters I’ve received about similar experiences – the presence of a loved one continuing to carry out all the little tasks they did in life.
In my opinion, this is ample evidence that our loved ones are still very near to us indeed.
The Persistent Papa
When Stephanie first came to see me, she brought someone along – her dad. As I’ve said before, there’s nothing unusual in that and, yes, before you ask, he was dead. But what was unusual and causing trouble was that Stephanie had no idea this was her dad. Her mother had been hiding a secret. Stephanie had always believed her dad’s name was George, but the man with her, who wasted no time telling me who he was, was called Charlie.
Stephanie’s mother had never been happily married and had known Charlie only briefly. But Stephanie had no idea of this. To be honest, neither had I. When I told Stephanie about Charlie, she didn’t know who I was talking about. In fact, she even thought I was a fraud! We had a bit of a disagreement, which in many ways wasn’t unnatural. I suppose I put my foot in it to some extent.
However, I could see Charlie so clearly. It was almost as if he was waiting for the opportunity to tell Stephanie how he felt about her. And that was proud. He hadn’t always been able to be with her. He was honest about that much. But never having achieved that much himself, he was glad to know that Stephanie had worked hard and become a teacher. She had been one of the top students in her year and was well respected by her colleagues. Charlie was also proud of Stephanie’s son who was nine. He knew she couldn’t have more children and was therefore devoted to the boy. Like her mum, Stephanie’s marriage wasn’t especially happy or secure but she still put all she had into it, and he admired her for that.
These were all the things Charlie wanted me to tell Stephanie. But, to be truthful, she didn’t want to hear them. Her parents had finally separated when she was 12, and the man she believed to be her dad had died eight months previously. When I first started to talk about ‘her dad’, she was delighted. But the moment I said his name, she lost interest. As things went on, I decided it might be better to stop talking about Charlie. I’m sure you can appreciate why. This was a delicate situation and I wasn’t entirely clear about it myself.
When Stephanie left, I felt an immense sense of relief, but this was followed by a deep feeling of sadness. I could sense that Charlie was still with me and I felt he was saying, ‘You’ve failed me. I thought this was my chance. I’ve waited years for this, watching that girl. She’s mine you know.’ And this upset me. I don’t like to think I’ve let anyone down, especially those spirits who have come along to see me with a special purpose in mind. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie,’ I had to say in this instance, ‘But you only gave me half a story.’
I don’t know whether this reproach had anything to do with it but a week or so later I had a letter from Stephanie. She hadn’t felt able to phone me. It would, she said, have been too traumatic. But she wanted to make another appointment because there were things she had to discuss.
Soon after, Stephanie came back to my office and I was fairly mesmerized. After she’d left me the first time, she had gone to see her mum and asked her outright who Charlie was. At first, her mum was unwilling to tell her, which was hardly surprising as it was still a painful subject for her. But later she told Stephanie everything, about her unhappy marriage and how she had met Charlie. It had been a brief affair. Charlie had wanted Stephanie’s mum to leave her husband, but as she had a son of three – Stephanie’s half-brother – she wouldn’t leave.
It wasn’t until after they parted that Stephanie’s mum found out she was pregnant. There was nothing else she could do, she felt, but stay as she was. In those days, it didn’t do to admit you had been having an affair.
Charlie had been killed in a road accident when Stephanie was a year old. But Stephanie’s mum had never forgotten him. In many ways, her marriage ended then, but she kept things going till Stephanie was 12.
There were so many things Stephanie wanted to say to her mum. But she knew at this stage that she couldn’t. She had no idea how she would get used to the idea of this other father, but somehow so many things from her childhood now made sense, including the fact that the man she thought of as her dad never had any real interest in her. ‘I just thought he didn’t love me. Now I see why,’ she wrote.
I never heard from Charlie again, but I know with absolute certainty that his spirit would have been with us that day, listening and feeling proud of his daughter, and smiling with such fondness.
Not One but Two!
As you know by now, my office often plays host to a spirit during readings, but there have been occasions when more than one has come along. In fact, I can think of several instances, but the one I rather liked was the story of Elma and Elaine, two sisters, both dead, who liked to keep an eye on their niece. Her name was Sophie and she had come to me for a reading.
Elma and Elaine had obviously liked to party, but as that was during the 1920s, their idea of a dance was quite different from ours. But they were unabashed about doing it. Elma even showed me some of the steps of the charleston! They were delightful ladies and had had sad lives, but that didn’t stop them looking out for their niece. What was more, she knew they did. When she came in for a consultation, she told me she’d probably brought visitors with her. And sure enough, within about five minutes, I was aware of the almost overwhelming presences of these ladies. ‘They’re supposed to be my old aunts,’ Sophie said. ‘But they don’t behave very much like it!’
The strange thing was that although it was Sophie who had come for the reading – and she was perfectly open in talking about her aunts – they were the ones who wanted to speak to me. Elma in particular. She’d had an unhappy love affair, just after the First World War, and been forced into marriage with a much older man she didn’t love, who was cruel to her. There had been a baby with her lover, whom she had also been forced to give up. It was something Sophie’s mum didn’t know because she had only been a small child at the time, and Elma had never spoken about it. She wanted Sophie to know this, however. She had never been able to be with her son or have other children, so that was why Sophie was so important to her and why she spent so much time hanging around her.
Sophie didn’t dispute this story. She had always felt there was a secret unhappiness about her aunt Elma. Sophie shed quite a few tears at her story because she had always been fond of her. When Sophie was a little girl, Aunt Elma had been a ‘great pal’. Her sense of fun was immense, and even as an old lady she had been young at heart.
Elaine, on the other hand, had never married, and she was honest about the fact that she was what at that time was known as ‘simple’. Her life had been one of drudgery and she had looked after her mum. But she had adored Elma, and that was why she wanted only to be where her sister was. The pride she had in Sophie was clear – if for no other reason than that Sophie had done the things in her life Elaine would have liked to do. She had married and had children, then gone on to train at college. If only Elaine could have had these chances, but she hadn’t.
But what she wanted Sophie to know was that, no matter how she had been viewed in life, she was entirely different now. In fact, she went as far as to say she had gone to college with Sophie and trained too!
‘I can believe it!’ said Sophie.
The ladies didn’t stay. They understood Sophie’s need to discuss some things that were private, and at that point they vanished. Sophie wasn’t worried. She knew that when she arrived home they’d probably be waiting for her and that they’d make their presence felt by switching the kettle on for her when she got in.
I could believe this too. These were fascinating ladies, with the right modicum of respect for their charge. It’s not always true of all spirits, but Elma and Elaine were certainly in a class of their own.
The Mum who Wanted to be Remembered
Let’s face it, isn’t that what most people want? To be remembered? To be known and appreciated by their loved ones? Well, spirits are no exception. Their longings are usually very much the same, only theirs have the added poignancy that they’re gone, often leaving loved ones behind in terrible situations.
When Yvonne came to see me, I thought that such a spirit had to be connected with her. I instantly had a sense of the most beautiful young woman with her – a really refined girl, with naturally curly auburn hair and sparkling green eyes that seemed to shine. She had such a calm, quiet aura about her and was determined to follow Yvonne in.
Before I began the reading, I felt I just had to know who this woman was. Her presence was so clear to me, I actually thought Yvonne herself must be aware of it. But she wasn’t. When I told her what I could see, she looked surprised. No, she hadn’t lost her mum, or an aunt, or sister, or anyone that close to her. But as I described the lady, and how exceptionally pretty she was, Yvonne did become thoughtful. She opened her handbag and fished in it for a moment or so. Then she produced a photograph. It was of a very handsome young man. The hair was dark but the eyes were entirely the same as the woman’s.
‘That’s Pete, my boyfriend,’ Yvonne said. ‘Does he look like the woman?’
It turned out that Pete’s mum had died when he was only two and he had never really known her, but he had been told about how stunning she was to look at. He had always longed to know her and regretted never having the chance. His dad had remarried and he was close to his stepmum. It was just that he wished he had known more about his real mum, so I was glad of this opportunity to tell Yvonne some things about her.
In particular, she had been very musical. She also suffered from a circulatory problem which meant her hands were always cold, no matter how many clothes she heaped on. As I relayed this to Yvonne, she smiled. This was one of the few things Pete knew about his mum.
‘You know,’ I said, ‘She’s come for another purpose. You’re going to have a baby before the year is out and she wants you to know everything will be fine.’ This was especially poignant because Pete’s mum had died following complications when she was giving birth to Pete’s sister.
Yvonne was surprised by this. I don’t think she believed me, or wanted to at that stage! But Pete’s mum was adamant. She went on to say that the baby would be a girl, and that she wanted Pete and Yvonne to get married, although she understood that Yvonne was waiting for a divorce.
As things turned out, Pete’s mum was surprisingly accurate about these things. I hadn’t even begun to read Yvonne’s cards and didn’t know that this was the situation. But Yvonne soon confessed that it was true.
After the reading, Yvonne got back in touch. It was to say that she had talked to Pete and, although at first he had been sceptical, the woman I had described was his mum. He was going to send me a copy of a photograph he had of her with her lovely auburn hair. And he did. In it she was exactly as she came over. And I still keep it to this day to remind me of that special session.
Yvonne did become pregnant and she and Pete had a little girl, who was later a bridesmaid at their wedding! So far as I know, they’re still happy. Pete’s mum certainly never said they wouldn’t be. And her predictions were absolutely a hundred per cent correct. In some ways, though, I’m glad she’s a spirit. She might put me out of business otherwise!
TWO (#ulink_c9d5fb69-dd95-5389-bc24-6d01f9154fa8)
Picture the Scene: My Own Ghostly Encounters (#ulink_c9d5fb69-dd95-5389-bc24-6d01f9154fa8)
This is my favourite chapter. Some would say that’s because it involves talking about myself – and they are probably right. Here I describe experiences I have had personally. My diverse encounters range from seeing the ghosts of close family members to famous ghosts, such as Robert the Bruce, while at a haunted castle or while investigating a reported sighting. I try to convey these experiences vividly to you by describing what happened to me, what I saw and what I felt at the time.
The German Soldiers
A few years ago I made a trip to Neilston to visit my cousin and admire her new home. The house itself impressed me and, of course, she was as proud as Punch. We began walking towards the back garden, out through a large patio door. At first it was the size of the garden which struck me, but then, within a matter of seconds, another scene began to unfold in front of me.
I was amazed to see a whole troop of German soldiers. No one else could see them but they were so clear to me. To this day I cannot explain how I knew they were Germans – I simply knew they were. I also knew they were soldiers from the Second World War.
They seemed jovial and were happily chatting away with one another. I noticed they were busy making something, which looked quite intricate to me. I couldn’t see what it was but I could see them as clearly as the ‘real’ folk around me.
I told my cousin about this – she knows what I’m like and is never sceptical or unsure of anything I say anymore. She told me she would go to the local library the following day and find out if there was any explanation for this. Why were there so many soldiers here, all looking pretty relaxed and far from confrontational?
So intrigued was I and so desperate for an answer that I mentioned it in my column in the Sun newspaper. I invited readers to write to me with any explanation, if there was one, for what I had seen.
A few days later, my postbag was full. Apparently, although not held as prisoners, several German soldiers were punished and removed from war duties and placed in a farm behind the Neilston mill – a hessian mill. The soldiers were treated very humanely and fairly and were given duties such as making hessian slippers. If any of them misbehaved, they were moved on to a much less informal destination where I believe they weren’t treated with such privilege.
Most of them, however, were well behaved and caused the Neilston natives no concern at all. In fact, many became friends and some actually stayed on after the war and married local girls.
Indeed, one of the letters I received was from a reader in his 70s – a German. He had known many of the men serving in that area and was one of many who never returned to Germany.
I also received letters from locals who remembered the German soldiers, and a few letters from readers who were the children of local women and their German husbands.
I found out that most of the soldiers had now passed away but they must surely have remembered their war days and the town of Neilston with fondness. After all, it is Neilston they come back to, apparently preferring it to their own home towns.
Every time I visit my cousin, I make a point of going to the patio door and standing, just watching the German soldiers again. It never fails to amaze me each and every time.
My Captain
My own cottage is haunted by the spirit of the captain of a ship, which was once anchored out in the river Tay – the Mars Ship.
For many years, the familiar cry ‘Behave yoursel’ or ye’ll get sent tae Mars’ was the scourge of the male youth of Dundee. In this case, Mars was not a planet but a training ship that sat directly outside my house, docked on the river Tay. The ship was mainly used to house juvenile delinquents but I have subsequently found out it was also used for orphaned boys.
It has long since gone – many decades ago – but it is remembered still by the natives, its legend passing through the generations.
I’ll talk some more about the ship, its captain and its occupants later, but at this point I want to describe the first time I saw him. I wasn’t the first to see him – a couple of my clients saw him, months apart, and yet described where he was standing, what he was wearing and his physical appearance in the exact same words.
I had been eager to meet him but my first encounter was pretty scary. I’m fairly used to ghosts, as you can gather, but I have to be in the correct frame of mind, otherwise I jump out my skin just like everyone else. Well, the first time I saw him, that’s exactly what I did – I nearly jumped the height of myself with fright!
My office is directly opposite my bedroom. As I often do, I had been burning the midnight oil in my office. When I’d finished for the night, I began to walk from my office across to my bedroom. The hallway was in darkness and the only light came from the third-floor landing. Through the huge bay windows up there, a little light shone from the outside sensor light. It was by no means bright and yet, as I looked up, I saw the captain in all his glory, down to the clothes he was wearing and even the pockmarks he had on his face.
My house has three floors, and at the top is an open-plan, converted attic. The view from there is stunning. Since moving here, I’ve pet-named this area the ‘Mars attic’. The captain once owned my 300-year-old cottage, and legend has it that he had the huge bay window made especially so that he could sit and watch his boat – and, more importantly, those on board!
That night, I was not in a psychic frame of mind. I had been working on something entirely different in my office, so ghosts were the furthest thing from my mind. I blame this for my reaction, which was one of terror. I never made it as far as the bedroom for I turned on my heels back to my office. Once there, I found myself beginning to type frantically.
I wrote about what I had just seen, trying to conjure up the scene I had witnessed, and then sent it to my editor at the Sun. I just typed and typed and typed. I was acutely cold and, for some time, felt too afraid to leave my office.
I deliberately wasted no time sending the story to my editor as I felt it was important not to dwell on the experience and risk changing it. I wanted the readers to feel what I felt and to sense what I had sensed. Interfering with what I had written, after the event, would have spoiled this aim entirely.
The following Friday, the article duly appeared. It did make interesting reading and I received many phone calls about it. One of those phone calls was a little bit special, however. When I listened to what I was being told, even I had shivers down my spine.
The caller was a client whom I’d seen maybe twice or three times over the years. We’d had a meeting a few weeks prior to the article. The reason Isobel was calling was to tell me, almost hysterically, what had happened to her.
I use the Mars attic as a waiting area for my clients. It allows them the peaceful view of the river, and many admit it calms their nerves while waiting for their allocated appointment time.
Isobel was one such client. I was running approximately 30 minutes behind schedule that day and, as she waited, she sat gazing at the water. Her deep thoughts were disturbed by the footsteps of someone coming up the stairs. She automatically turned to look and was met by a man. The man sat down beside Isobel and they chatted for 10 minutes or so. They spoke mainly about the water, the weather, the view – general small talk. Isobel at this stage thought nothing of the situation she found herself in. The man was quiet but then Isobel was a talkative type.
Isobel knew I had an old friend, Bill, who stayed with us and looked after Athena (my little girl). She assumed Athena was having a nap and that Bill had come upstairs for some relaxation until she woke.
The only thing she found strange was the way he was dressed. She recalls he was very smartly dressed, way over the top for not only that time of day but also for the climate. However, she merely made small talk and, shortly afterwards, he took his leave.
Isobel read my article that morning and, in her own words, ‘didn’t know whether to laugh or cry’ or whether to call me or not. She just didn’t know what to do. But in the end, she decided to call my office. And I’m so glad she did.
The man, she told me, fitted the description of the captain in my article. He in no way resembled Bill. In retrospect, a lot of what she found strange about him now seemed to make sense – the way he was dressed, the way she did most of the talking while he gazed impassively out at the river. Although there was no ‘disappearing into thin air’, she also remembers thinking how quickly he descended the flight of stairs. As he took his leave, she turned to look the other way but looked back towards the stairs quickly – only to find he was gone.
Isobel thought so little of this at the time, assuming that the man she’d had a 10-minute conversation with was alive and well, that she never bothered to mention it to me. It was only after reading the article on the captain that she put two and two together.
Isobel has no doubts that she spoke to the spirit of the captain of the Mars ship that day. Nor do I. The captain is still here and makes his presence known from time to time. Since that night, however, I have never felt afraid of him.
The Iron Mask
A Radio Clyde programme led me to investigate the following sightings. The setting was the very picturesque village of Kirk O’Shotts, a tiny place just off the M8 motorway between Glasgow and Edinburgh.
One listener called the show to tell of a frightening experience she had just encountered while driving home along the Canthill Road near Shotts prison. This struck a chord with many listeners who phoned to say that they had also experienced something strange at that exact same spot.
The story I was told was vague. Apparently, ‘something’ had jumped out into the path of moving cars as if trying to commit suicide. This was so real that every motorist who experienced this stopped their car, terrified they had killed a pedestrian.
Each one checked their car, checked the road, looked behind walls and hedges – all to no avail. No one could find any explanation for what could possibly have caused the almighty thud. Some were afraid; some put it down to their imagination … until that phone call to Radio Clyde. Suspicion and curiosity increased and so I was called in to investigate.
Arriving at the scene, I was overwhelmed by the prettiness of the area and its stunning 15th-century kirk. Kirk O’Shotts is only minutes from both large cities, yet its beautiful setting could equally be 100 miles from anywhere. The kirk is rumoured to be one of the most famous in Scotland. Locals claim it was the very spot where a giant of a man, Bertram Shotts, fell to his death after an altercation with one William Muirhead.
