Alright this is my first post, but surely not my first experience. I myself am able to speak with spirits, and so here is one of the few memories I shall share. Yet, in telling you my memory, I must tell you the lives of those spirits from which are connected to the memory. Since this takes place in my current house and I can see what I'm trying to describe, I shall give you the layout of the house. You enter the front door and the coat closet is there. Turning to your left you enter the front from, off the right of there are the bed rooms and bathroom from the hallway. Going to the left is the rest of the front room and the kitchen is near the back of the front room, which has a door to the garage.
I was sitting on the floor chatting with my father, a rarity in itself. When my father's face changed, and when I say change I mean his face CHANGED. It got all pale and his eyes were transfixed on the hallway, which lay behind me. I turned and I saw a shadow pull back, as if it was hiding from me. I couldn't help but smile. It was a young boy, around maybe 5. He had sandy brown hair and blue eyes. He wore coveralls, and those hard shoes they used to wear. I can tell you the few times since that I have seen him; he is one of the cutest little boys I have seen. But on this night, every time I would look at him, he'd pull back behind the wall so I couldn't see him. Yet, for some unknown reason, he'd let my father see him.
The next night, and a night that shall be burned in my head forever, I met his grandfather's spirit. This man I never saw, I only heard his roaring voice. It was weak with his age, yet it still had the thunderous sound of demand with it. This man, as with many I have met, was not the kindest to women. He saw us as nothing more than things that needed to mind our own business. I however, because of my bullheadedness, I refused to listen to him. I talked more with the boy, whose name I am purposefully not saying, and came to find out that his death had been an accident at the hands of his grandfather. For those of you who have big hearts, just like I do, this next part will be hard to swallow.
The more I asked and talked with the boy, the more I found out. I asked about his mother, a sore topic with him but someone he spoke about on a regular basis. Then, from nowhere came that echoing voice of his grandfather, telling me to mind my own business again. As always, I happily refused and kept digging. That was when the boy decided to show me what happened to his mother. Through my own eyes I saw the day he died, and the day his mother was murdered.
His father was a drunk, and the grandfather believed the mother didn't have what it took to raise a child. So he took it upon himself to raise him, but when he came to take the boy away, his mother fought back, like any true mother would. That was when the grandfather lost his "cool" and his temper flared. He turned on her, and... (Here it is as I said) he beat her to death in front of the boy. But the boy refused to stand by and let it happen. He tried to stop his grandfather, and as he grabbed a hold of his grandfather's arm; his grandfather shoved him away making him trip. As he fell his head struck the wooden floor and fractured his skull. This was the end of the boy, his mother and the family they "had." After hearing and seeing this I began to cry uncontrollably. It was horrible listening to him yell for his mother and for his grandfather to stop. I can hear it replaying in my head right now and it makes me want to cry.
I know parts of this sound completely made up, since I refer to him only as "the boy," but even as a spirit I believe they have a right to keep their life's tales to themselves, or at least to keep their names out of them when they are told. He didn't want his name said, and so I haven't said it. I miss his mother, because she has since crossed over and now is at peace. The grandfather has left too, much against his will but we refused to have a man like him here. We still talk to the boy, and joyfully he plays the "hide and seek" game with us. I catch glimpses of him out of the corner of my eye, and sometimes I see him smile at me. He's a wonderful little boy whose life was cut too short.
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