My Ghostie Friends

When I was a child, I would often hear my name called. It always sounded like my Mom. But when I asked her what she needed, of course her answer would be that she didn't call me. I slept with my bed against the wall and usually with my back against it, as I was sure that there were "things" under my bed just waiting to grab me. When our dog Tip

(I know, really original, huh?) would start barking at night, I could quiet him by telling him to shut up telepathically. At least, I thought I did! I ended many nights at the foot of my parents' bed, but to this day I don't know why.

As I grew older, my experiences waned until a few years ago. I have always been interested in the paranormal. I had what I believe to be my first experience with a ghost since childhood while I was pregnant with my daughter. I posted it on here some time ago. And again, there seemed to be a lapse until we visited my Mom for her 75th birthday. That story is on here, too. Okay, enough of the self-plug! I want to tell of a few occurrences since our return to Las Vegas.

While we were visiting my Mom, she was gracious enough to lend us her car for a day so that we could go visit the grave of my daughter's father. He passed away before she was born, and adverse circumstances kept me from ever taking her there. (His parents never wanted to acknowledge her) On the way there, we visited the grave of a 16 year old girl, who my grandmother's uncle had murdered in 1832. I don't know why, but I have spent the better part of my life compelled to visit her grave and tell her how sorry I was. I seriously do not think that anyone in my family ever went to pay their respects to this poor girl, and it is quite common knowledge that she haunts the cemetery. Finding this cemetery is a story in itself, but not appropriate for this site, so suffice it to say that we arrived finally, and I and my kids paid a very solemn and tearful visit to this little girl. As we were all gathered around her grave, kneeling, my granddaughter asked my daughter if the little girl could come home with us. My daughter said, "No, Zoe. She has to stay here." To which Zoe replied, "But she says she wants to come home with me" Again, my daughter said no. Zoe was only three at the time. We never spoke of this subject in front of her, as it is a delicate matter. So how she knew that there was a girl involved, well, I have my theory that kids are sensitive. I think she may have followed us home anyway. And when you read this account, you'll see why I say that.

Fast forward to June or July of that same year (2008) my oldest son, Brandon and I had gone out to Walmart for something (?) and were returning home. It was about 8:30 or so in the evening. Neighborhoods here in Vegas are really strange, in that there are usually a lot of twists and turns to get to your house. As we were twisting and turning our way home, there was a car right on my butt. Well, being the cantankerous old bitty that I am, I went slower. (Like none of you have done that! LOL) as I pulled into our driveway, I stuck my hand out the window and gave this gentleman a hand signal that I'm sure the whole world is familiar with. He yelled something like "right back at you" but in much more vulgar language. (One point: my truck has a standard transmission.) I shifted down to first gear and pulled into the garage, which I was sure that I had closed before we left. Anyway, as soon as we were inside the garage the door closed. I asked Brandon, "What's the matter? Are you SCARED?" He calmly said, "No. Why?" I said, "Then why did you shut the door so fast?" He said," I thought YOU did!" Well, after some discussion about who could have done it, we went inside and checked on my husband and youngest son. JR was sleeping, and my husband was upstairs on his computer. There was no way that one of them did it, as my husband is older than me and could not have POSSIBLY climbed all those stairs so fast! Besides, I would have seen an arm coming out of the door to the house to hit the button on the wall, and I had the only opener with me in the truck.

During the months preceding our visit to my Mom's, I was trying to quit smoking and was doing quite well. In June, my husband had a small heart attack, and while he was hospitalized he did quit. I was home on sick leave with problems with severe tendonitis in my thumbs of all things, very painful. But anyway, I was still in the process of quitting, and out of consideration to my husband, I would smoke outside. Well, one day we were having a "discussion" and I was very irritated and felt the need to SMOKE! Our bedroom had double French doors that had three locks. I unlocked the door, but it would not open. I fastened and unfastened the locks again, and still the door held tight. Honestly, the doors were literally pulling in as I pulled the door knob! And I know what you're thinking: that with the problem I had with my thumbs, the knob wasn't fully turned. But it was. I looked. Finally, I asked, and not so gently, my husband to please open the door. He went over, turned the knob, and opened the door without so much as even the slightest effort. I said thank-you.

From that time to around the middle of October, nothing much happened. There were things missing and turning up days later where we had looked for them a dozen times. The garage door was a big thing. It would close by itself at the most inopportune times. Once, while my husband and son B. Were watching a football game, one of the lights in the living room turned on by itself. My husband was in the room alone, on the couch (surprise!) They were overhead lights that showcased the knick-knacks that I had in my bay window. And the switch had to be pushed in for the lights to go on. And a humorous event that I had at work that I'll post later.

Okay, mid October. I had just woken up and was in the kitchen attempting to make coffee. I go to work at 4 am, so it was quite early, but I don't recall the time. In our kitchen was a shelf over the counter that was home to the microwave. The top of the microwave is a favorite place for my husband to put things that he just can't figure out where else to put it. The pictures that we took in Ohio of our excursion to the cemeteries were there. I was standing there, waiting for my coffee, when the pictures fell off. Not all of them, but a lot. Three of them landed on the floor, face down. I got the image of three pictures in my mind. One was of my son Bran and my granddaughter in my Mom's car at the cemetery, one was of the hospital in which my boys were born and one was of my daughter's dad's headstone. The images just flashed in my head. When I picked them up, imagine my surprise when I saw that they were the one's that had flashed in my head! Brandon, at that time was out on his own and I took this as a sign that something could soon happen to him. However, I got my answer to this puzzle on Thanksgiving Day, when my brother called to say that my mom had been hospitalized. She was taking blood-thinners, and unbeknownst to her or her doctors, she has ulcers. Well, she nearly bled to death. I think it was John trying to tell me that. Her car, the hospital and his headstone. It fits for me.

Well, I see that this is quite long. The next experiences I'll leave to another time. Most of them happened during Christmas time, this last one and the year before. I think you'll all get a kick out of them...