The Haunted Age of Memories and Voices – Is it all True Series #399

Part 1.
A while back I talked to my oldest sister about our upbringing growing up in a conservative household. We both realized that there were some things about our childhood that we had never talked about. I guess this is common in many families for various reasons. Scary things can be hidden and placed on the back burner of life especially when youth and independence is pushing itself past the doors of authority. We wanted to leave Albuquerque as soon as we could but it never occurred to us until our later years to look at why this was so.

Our recollections of the Catholic elementary school we went to with our middle sister are basically the same; lost time, blocked memories, fear and a constant anxiety on a daily basis. My memories of the halls of this particular school seem to fade into an elongated tunnel that usually gets darker each step I take. It appears that my memory confuses the underground tunnels of the local military base with the school because at this time I was bused out on a weekly basis. The memories blur together sometimes and pulling them apart is like pulling apart superglue.

We have realized that the Catholic school we went to hid unmentionables from our parents and one such memory comes to mind. I can remember being in the principal’s office with my mother. My mother scolded the principal for lacking in the ability to hire good teachers because as a little first grader I was not doing well, basically I couldn’t read. The principal told my mother that I was retarded (yes, really) and that it wasn’t their fault I couldn’t read. Little did my mother know that much more was going on and there was a reason why I couldn’t read.
As my mother talked in a very high pitched tone, the principal was looking me square in the eyes, cold as ever reminding me to keep my mouth shut. After all, the very parent they threatened me they would hurt if I talked, was my mother. Eyes cast down, I knew I was just like the trapped animals they hurt to remind me to be quiet. Even though my parents felt they kept us safe, they didn’t understand how underhanded and malevolent the principal was and the people who took me out of school at various times to the underground bases. It seems to be part of the program to keep the surface of perceived expectations infallible for parents so that the modus operandi can continue without fail.

Memories of blue busses and mountain entrances along with the anxious chatter of several children talking all at once, has stayed with me all these years. Sometimes I wonder if it’s all implanted memory or if it really did happen. As an adult, I have found some areas of Albuquerque have a dark and haunted energy to them. My memories have guided me to these areas and thanks to my visual recollections; they corroborate specific locations to profound and surprising detail. Maybe I am the one more haunted than the locations, how can it be any different.

Physical implications with living in a young experiencers bubble can come in all manifestations. There’s was nothing more embarrassing than the moments I wet my pants because my body would react out of fear from some unseen memory or monster. It could be at any time or place, on weekends or family outings. Instinctively, I remembered the locations of interactions or abductions and my body just reacted from those memories. I felt ashamed and remember to this day, at certain places, kids around me, laughing at me and my sisters walking me to the bathroom. I grew up baffled as to why certain locations would scare me so but I realized that Albuquerque was only culpable because I lived there .

As a child, if I woke up with strange looking pink fluid coming out of my private parts and on my underwear, I would throw them away, too embarrassed to even show my mom. As an adult the few times I have awoke with the pink fluid coming out of me, I instinctively hid it from anyone, again too embarrassed to say anything. To this day, I still don’t talk about it much.

The déjà-vu replays itself over and over again whenever I go back home to visit. Looking at each memory, it’s no wonder as an adult I replay the emotions over and over again. I have come to the conclusion that emotions heal at a different pace than that of the mind or body. Perhaps one day, when they are all on the same page I’ll go back home and the moment will be just that, a moment in time with nothing connected to it.

Five Ghosts and a House Hunt — Is it all True Series # 382

ghost-image

I was in Salt Lake City over the weekend and my fiancee and we were house searching for our future home there. It’s a beautiful city and like all cities there are places where spirits hang out. So on this trip we met five ghosts in one house we were looking at. As we walked into the house, there was a feeling like we were walking through a spider web and strange psychic veil. We had to blink several times to remove the feeling. The lighting inside was darker than expected with minimum coverings on the window, almost like there was some screening over the windows. Spirits like it darker than live humans. The bedrooms were depressingly dark.

My fiancee, who is a powerful empath, noticed the smell of the spirits which is similar to an earthy, damp, dark, after-life smell. She encountered the first spirit in the kitchen, she was a female in her middle 30’s to early 40s, blonde and young feeling who seemed to hang out mostly in the kitchen. She had not died in the house so we don’t know how she got there. Next in the basement she encountered the other four spirits. One of them had a grandpa feeling, as my fiancee walked deeper into the basement, she met the leader of the group. He was a young aggressive male, died in his late 20’s of TB or some other consuming disease. He was a very unhappy soul. This young male was about 5‘10” blonde hair and gave off a powerful feeling, that felt like he didn’t want us there. My fiancee suddenly got pressure (a strong headache) on the top her head and chest pressure. She got the impression that if a person was alone, down in the basement, they could be locked in with unimaginable scary things coming at them or done to them.

The other male and female in the house gave off a presence but no other identifiable traits, except they were both controlled by the aggressive male. So you probably guessed we didn’t take the house. There would be times a ghost or two in your house would not be a problem, for it is very possible to co-exist with them. They can even be good house-sitters when you are away, and no harm would come to the house, for it is their home also.

Sleep tight, if you have a Casper, you can always sleep in peace.
MWiz.

The Spirits of McGavock Confederate Cemetery– Is it all True Series ?– # 359

Carnton plantation 2

This is a fitting story to share with all of you during Fall and the beginning of Winter. It’s a new tale, fresh with a mixed brew of emotions and haunting whispers. It is one story I thought I would never tell only because my experiences with ghosts have never been with the Civil War, only the old west towns of my home state, New Mexico and those along my travels as a cowgirl.

Sometimes spirits reach out to those who can feel them, hear them and relay the replays of life that went on years past. They whisper the echoes of torment, languishing pain and the truth of how death does not end their soul’s convictions…it only prolongs the outcome of their inevitable actions, if such have the fallacy of intolerance.

What wayward souls can not comprehend, they cannot see and because of this, they cannot rest.

With this being said, I will now share with you the story of my travels with my sister Holly, to Carnton Plantation just a few minutes from Franklin, Tennessee where the Battle of Franklin took place in November 30, 1864.

Just a mere two weeks ago, I went to Nashville to visit my sister and to enjoy the southern hospitality she is known for. My sister is a fabulous cook, the hostess with the mostess in all aspects of making anyone feel right at home. The area where she lives is not too far from the town of Franklin, a place that oozes with the shadowy memoirs of a sorrowful past. I realized the moment Holly took me through this beautiful town; I was literally thrust back in time, no time machine needed here because the surroundings emulated old Southern pride. It’s a déjà vu kind of feeling but as a Yankee, it felt a little unnerving. The architecture through out the town with the churches and homes held within their walls the echoes of people running, yelling, and the distant thunder of gun fire. It was still in the air and I could feel the emotions with every fiber of my being. Holly and I are empaths, we feel places and with this ability we can smell the flowery aromas of perfume or the trepidation and stench of death. This ability is in our family, it’s in our blood.

The day after traveling through the striking town of Franklin, Holly somehow without forethought but I’m pretty sure, pure intuition, drove right by the Carnton Plantation as if planned and on queue. She said she had never been there before and was quite surprised to have driven by there on our way to another plantation. We decided immediately that we were destined to go to this one instead. The land seemed to whisper secrets through the car windows to us and then there seemed to be an urgency to our summoning. As Holly turned the car around, we almost went down a one way road the wrong way. It was a bit confusing at first but interestingly enough that confusion never left us even as we drove up the one lane road. We could see that this plantation was not only massive but obviously an important historical landmark. As we drove into the parking lot, the house sat back behind what looked like a large barn and to our right was a cemetery that had huge headstones peaking out from the iron fence.

With my persuasion, we first went to the cemetery because it was up on a hill and I wanted to look around and see the vast green land that encircled the cemetery. Holly stated she had reservations about entering the cemetery but like a trouper, she ventured forward with me. There seemed to be an odd feeling that almost felt like we had walked into a bubble or a time warp from the past. The air was different, birds crowed and yelled down at us and we both felt the immediate sense of sadness and the traumatic demise of all the soldiers within the cemetery. There are nearly 1,500 Confederate soldiers buried at the cemetery who were casualties of the Battle of Franklin. Carrie Winder McGavock was in charge of the soldiers brought to Carnton which was to become the largest field hospital in the area for the wounded. There were at least 150 Confederate soldiers who died that first night at Carnton from the battle. There are still blood stains on the floorboards of the main house to this day.

When we entered the cemetery none of this information was known to us. We understood the severity of what all the men had gone through because we could feel it in our bones. It was with this emotion, this connection that the first communication with some of the spirits of the cemetery started to happen.

I heard a mans voice say softly to me, “How is Elizabeth?”

Wait a minute; I went…no, he said Lizbett. I thought I must have gotten the name wrong but when he said it again, he said it more forcefully and I knew for sure he was saying the name Lizbett. I told him I was sorry that I didn’t know her. I asked my sister if that was a Southern name and she said she thought so.

We walked through the main entrance and Holly said she didn’t feel right, she almost felt like she didn’t want to go forward. I had trepidations myself but I walked a little ways past the family gravestones to the entrance to where the Confederate soldiers were buried. Holly walked with me and we immediately stepped to our left, looking at the first of granite markers. We saw two copper pennies on top of two markers and we both wondered what the significance of that was. It was at this very moment that a young mans voice came to me, talking in my right ear and in my head, stating that he had died of a gun shot wound and he wanted to show me where he was shot. I didn’t want to know but he didn’t let up and upon hearing him say, “I got shot in my stomach,” I felt the first stinging pains in my own stomach right where my belly button is. I told Holly my stomach hurt and when we turned to face the dirt path that went down the middle of the markers, we did an about face and left the cemetery. It was just too much.

This young soldier would not let up. It was imperative for him that he tell me what happened to him. I finally acquiesced, letting him know I would listen.

He started from the moment he was shot. He said he was down for about an hour. It hurt like hell and he didn’t think at the time it was something he would die from. He knew men were down around him but he thought if he could get help, he would be alright.

He knew he was bleeding out and he tried to calm himself down waiting for help to come. He was only 19 or maybe 20, young, full of hope, not really understanding the gravity of his situation. When help did arrive, he felt he would be taken on a stretcher and he would live to fight another day. There were three men, two carrying a stretcher and the other man checking wounds. They talked to him for a few minutes, looked at his wound and with grave faces told him there was nothing they could do for him. They were under orders to take and carry only those wounded that could be saved. They gave him his death sentence. He never saw it coming just like he never saw the bullet that hit him. He said he lay there for about three to four hours before he died. He couldn’t believe they left him and for him, the fact they did leave him was worse then getting shot. He felt alone when he died. I think this is why sometimes he’s not sure he’s dead. His memory stays within the confines of the bullet that brought him down. It’s an eternal pain that he shared with me, not just a physical one.

Carnton Plantation

By the time he finished telling me his story, my stomach was burning and I felt as if my insides were on fire. The pressure on my stomach was intense; it was as if I literally had an opening gash that was bleeding out.

Holly and I entered the gift shop by the barn area and when we walked in, we both thought for a minute we might fall down from weak and shaky legs. I couldn’t really focus on any one item except for a book on Carnton. I felt like I should buy it but for some reason I didn’t. We decided to make a hasty departure to the car because neither one of us was feeling or doing well. I was bent over at this point from the pain in my stomach and Holly had a headache that was growing in intensity by the minute. The Carnton house was out of the question. Neither of us wanted to take the tour.

As I climbed into the car, from my right ear, I distinctly heard an angry male voice that seemed to be in his mid 40s to early 50’s. Discretion Advised! (Please understand that this is what I heard and not how I talk. I debated whether I should state what I heard and I feel it’s only right to write exactly what I heard.)

He said, “God Damn (N word)! Nobody is gonna tell me what I do with my property!”

I said, “Oh my God, Holly, you won’t believe what I just heard.” I then proceeded to tell her, word for word. She shook her head and said it was time for us to go. I was in shock and couldn’t believe the intense animosity coming from the male voice who spoke in my right ear. That kind of talk is just plain wrong and I found myself feeling disgusted at hearing it.

Holly drove down the one lane road exiting the plantation and it wasn’t until we were on the main road and driving away that we both started to feel better. For a minute we just looked at each other. Words were beyond us.

As a woman of the west, I must admit that I came back home with a tangled web of emotions. I had no idea the Civil War was fought in so many areas where my sister lives. I had no idea the mindset of the South lives on. Most of all, I had no idea how sad I would feel about the loss of life. It’s an intense feeling of sorrow with a raw edginess to it.

There is one thing for sure that I do know and that is that death makes every man and every woman equal because in the eyes of death,our humanity is all the same. What makes us individuals is our sense of self when we die. For these men of the Franklin Battle, they were comrades in arms and I think it’s this unity that keeps them there. They stay because of each other and they stay because in the end, they don’t seem to know the Battle of Franklin is over.

From Rainbow Radaelli – truthseekerhighway.com

Part 2: Mountainair- Shaffer- Hotel of Mystery -Is it all True Series # 330

schaffer hotelPlease read part 1 last week for a little more background on thehotel; so let’s continue with the wonderful stories coming from this hotel in Mountainair, New Mexico.

The Jack and Jill rooms, numbers 17 and 18: in 1928 a cowboy was staying in the Shafferwhile attending the Bean and Cattle Auction. Well the bad news is the cowboy was found hung in the bathroom between rooms 17 and 18. Pa Shaffer found the body and not knowing who he was strangely buried his body in an unknown burial site, for the cowboy didn’t sign the hotel register. Those were different times I guess. A couple of years ago a local skeptic on the cowboy hanging stayed in the same room where this incident took place.

The skeptic challenged the cowboy ghost to show himself. Note other past guests to the room had seen out of the corner of their eyes a body lying on the floor in the bathroom. So the skeptic in the middle of the night got up to go to the bathroom and suddenly he was shoved head first into the wall and held there for several minutes. He howled for his kids who were in the adjoining room 17, but they could not move to help their dad; finally he was released from the ghostly hold.But he next found out that all doors to the hall werelocked and after several minutes of struggling to get out, the doors opened freely. The skeptic and his children were found in the hotel lobby at 4am in the morning by the early staff, very shaken,not asking for their money back but just wanting to check out as soon as possible. He vowednever to return to the hotel, which he hasn’t to this day.This event happened just a few years ago.

Part 3 to come and remember to sleep tight, Ghosts and other beings have been among us from the beginning of Human time and probably before.

MWiz.

Richard G. Santos speaks—MORE GHOSTS AND SPIRITS OF THE CAMINO REAL

By
Richard G. Santos

Dinky (a nickname) says she was about six years of age when she first saw the light. It seems that one cool night in Fall her father took her and her mother for a ride into the darkened countryside. It was late at night. She does not remember what time it was when her father parked the car and turned off the headlights. Sitting on the back seat, Dinky quickly put her chin on the front seat between her parents to see what lay ahead. The harvest moon shone its light upon the north central Texas Plains as an old two story house came into view. The house had apparently been empty for a long time as indicated by dangling boards, doors hanging sideways and broken windows. Off to the left of the house was a tall barn without doors. I could not see the interior but easily imagined stalls for horses, farm and ranching tools hanging on broken walls and a ladder leading to the hayloft, she said with a certain amount of excitement.
œHere it comes, said her father softly as she held his wifes left hand. Watch and don’t make a sound.” Dinkys mother reportedly sighed deeply and placed her right hand to her lips as if to quiet herself. Hovering off the ground on the left side of the barn was a glowing image. It was not human-shaped as it had no head or feet. I was like an elongated glowing oval that moved very slowly along the outside left wall. First it moved toward the front, stopped as if looking at us, then floated along the wall to the rear. Again it stopped and started floating to the front. Back and forth it went a number of times as it looking for something, someone or maybe a way into the barn. After a while my mother said lets go, I have seen enough so we left. To this day I do not know what I saw or what it was. There was no explanation then and I have no explanation today. I remember it clearly and until today I had only told my children and no one else.
My friend Dinky is not the only person who has experienced an inexplicable incident and never told anyone other than the closest relatives. It is difficult to explain something the person does not understand. There is also the fear of people laughing in disbelief. So many stories of apparitions remain secret, unsaid and unrecorded.
The same is true for Miss M. I. who says she remembers still sleeping in a crib with her sister at about age two and seeing stuffed clowns crawling up the railings threatening to jump into the crib! I asked if she was sure about being roughly age two and she aggressively assured me she remembers it well. Setting the age question aside, she recalls how scared she was of all clowns of any size, living or stuffed. Listening to her I suspected she still hesitates when it comes to circus or party clowns.
Miss M. I. also recalls as a young girl of elementary school age laying in bed and seeing the rooms furniture and other items floating upside down in the air above her head. Screaming for her mother the items quickly returned to their places as soon as someone entered the room. In discussing this incident she agreed these scenes may have occurred when she was ill and had a high fever. In other words, without saying it, she informally agreed she could have been hallucinating while suffering from the flu or other high fever causing malady. She added no one believed her as a child and does not readily share these two experiences with anyone. Surprisingly, she added her sister with whom she shared the crib up to about age three recalls the climbing, menacing stuffed clowns! You figure.
Meanwhile, Mr. G from the Asherton-Catarina corridor remembers some spooky experiences from his childhood. Like most in that area of Texas, the sound of galloping horses, bull whips cracking in the air and wagons with clanking chains were also heard by G. Stories of hidden treasures, flames shooting from out of the ground late at night and strange floating masculine and feminine glowing shapes in the monte, along unpaved country roads and specific paths are also recalled.
So we ask, just how many ghost stories and inexplicable incidents are there along the three different routes of the Camino Real de los Tejas? There is no question many people lost their lives along the routes; some by natural causes, others by accident and still others through hostile and/or criminal acts. Battles between Native American tribes and clans featured both killings and cannibalistic rituals. So are there any spirits of an Indian killed in battle or his/her body parts eaten at a religious mitote haunting specific places and sites? What about the early Spanish explorers on official or unofficial expeditions crossing the area? How many of those who died along the routes of the Camino Real are still lingering on-site without eternal peace? Then there are the known Mexican merchants taking goods to San Antonio de Bexar being assaulted, robbed and killed by hostile tribes or bandidos of diverse ethnic background.
After statehood in 1848, the area quickly entered the period called The Indian Wars so how many Native American or early Texan, U.S. troops and Hispanics may still be guarding the places where they fell or buried a treasure. Then again, what was a treasure to the person who buried it? To the early Native Americans a treasure could have been a freshly killed bear, buffalo, enemy, pottery or trinkets used as jewelry. To the Spanish explorers a treasure could have been a favorite horse, a mate or family member (wife, child, husband, girlfriend, boyfriend, etc), or some pesos duros (Spanish silver coins commonly called pieces of eight. To those who came after 1848 a treasure could have been a sword, gun, rifle, photograph, mate or family member. So what are/were the buried or lost treasures of the Camino Real de los Tejas? And why can’t some spirits seem to find eternal peace? Were they not buried but merely left above ground for the wild animals and weather to do away with their remains? Did they not receive proper religious departure whether Native American, Jewish or Christian? Or, could some of those supposed spirits be guarding their greatest treasure; their souls and final resting place? We know not the answers but merely record the ghost storied and legends shared by many who grew up or live along the three routes of the Camino Real de los Tejas.
In closing, we are happy to have had the German documentary film-makers in town along with former internee Art Jacob. It is always a pleasure and honor to assist in any manner possible. And special thanks to Mayor Benito Perez, Jack Kingsbury and the Dairy Queen gang for helping out. Muchisimas gracias amigos.

End end End

Zavala County Sentinel June 6-7, 2007