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For some people, cemeteries are places to avoid. We all know that eventually someday we will end up in one so why push our luck, right? If you can get past what they signify, they really can be great places to walk around, getting to know your local history. If you are like Michael and me, we are always hoping for an orb to fly by or for a misty image to come around a headstone and say hello.
Just recently, we visited Lone Fir Cemetery in Portland and were completely blown away by its massive trees and beauty that spans 31 acres. It was established in 1855 and is considered one of the oldest cemeteries in Portland. Its massive size is a feast for the eyes and walk-ways a great way to exercise or walk off lunch. We consider it one of the most beautiful cemeteries we have ever been to.
As an Empath, I can sense the emotions of people who passed on and because of this; I am always on the lookout for those silent words whispered in my ear by a voice from long ago or the wind echoing hundreds of voices, swirling past me, giving me goosebumps. Whether I hear one voice or many, they all have one thing in common, they want to be heard.
Most people don’t see cemeteries as dark and scary places … in the day time, but even Michael and I have to admit, the hairs on the back of our necks stand up once the sun goes down and the shadows become swallowed up by the all-consuming night. Horror flicks such as Pet Cemetery or The Graveyard don’t help any because they tend to push peoples imagination into overdrive, even ours.
As paranormal researchers, we have to keep our own imaginations in check. In some strange way, it always feels like we are visiting someone’s home away from home. For example, when I walk over a grave, I apologize, because it only seems right. Sometimes I will get real intense feelings in my chest all the way down to my legs as if someone is trying to make me stop. In these moments, I try to calm my mind and listen. Sometimes their voices are mixed in with background noises so they aren’t always easy to hear.
At an isolated cemetery, we visited in New Mexico, I heard a woman tell me that she died of consumption. I guess this was a common word used in the early part of the 1900s to explain the wasting away of the body. It’s connected to tuberculosis but before that, I think it was a layman’s term to describe the disease in general.
Its Michael here, I must interject one thing, when this happened a few years ago; Rainbow came to me and asked me what the word consumption meant. I asked her why and she said that as she walked by a grave, she heard someone whisper this word in her ear. What I find interesting here is the fact that Rainbow hadn’t heard this word before or knew what it meant. This for me was a confirmation that Rainbow had made contact.
The word’s meaning was a bit chilling to me and fitting especially when heard specifically at a cemetery. I often wonder about people’s attachment to their bodies. Do they follow the light or do they stay around in a confused state? Would you stay around to see what happens to your body?
At Lone Fir Cemetery, I didn’t get an isolated voice directly speaking to me, more so muffled sounds that seemed to come from the graves themselves. Think of a low-frequency echo in your head with multiple voices coming at you all at once. It’s something I never get used to.
We intend to go back to Lone Fir cemetery not only because it’s a great walk in a beautiful setting but because of its history. Besides, who knows, we might come across whispered stories of forgotten times or misty images waiting to be photographed. No matter what, Michael and I are always ready for contact.
Happy and safe adventures,
Mike and Rainbow
For the most part, Michael and I are usually on the same page regarding our projects, interests and ideas. Every once in a while, we don’t agree, which makes life interesting. So last week’s post, written by Michael wasn’t something I totally agreed with. Here’s my take on this subject.
Since I’m an Empath, throughout my life I have had disembodied spirits talk to me besides other beings of different intents and places. Most of the time, I don’t go looking for them, they come looking for me. As a kid I was scared to death, as a teeny bopper, I was annoyed and as a young adult I just wanted to be like my friends, oblivious to anything outside of school and boys.
Time doesn’t exist outside of our last breath; at least this is what was told to me by spirits, ghosts and a few goblins. It’s a comfort, kind of like leaving the lights on at night but outside of our existence, it’s not necessary.
Ghosts become the end result of their lives, whether they be short, long or in the middle. Painful deaths, wrongful deaths and long and tortuous deaths can change the outcome of where we go as humans in the afterlife. And sometimes, people just don’t want to leave. The attachment to a person or a place is so great, that they are bound to the emotional attachment of their memories. Love is a strong bond that holds no bounds.
Residual hauntings are a different story; they are a replaying of emotional trauma intentional or accidental. A car crash, catastrophic circumstances, heart attack or whatever can ail the human body. Shock and awe can saturate a place within seconds and leave a residue of unrequited answers lingering for eons.
Unconsecrated ground brought forth from ceremonies, unholy or untimely deaths can create such a outburst of emotional repulsion and distress that, that very moment in time is imprinted forever. To be within this energy is unhealthy and for anything to linger within its effluence can create a crack within the parameter of existence for ghosts and humans alike.
Whatever can bring about confusion and denial, usually holds the human spirit here. It’s a tough realization to comprehend that the human body is no longer a part of life, that the things that most of us take for granted … are gone for good. When death enters the picture, there are no second chances. The door is closed, at least for the human to human contact we live with day in and day out.
But let’s take this a step further, imagine, using other abilities to communicate to loved ones, that weren’t used while you were alive. What is death, really? It takes away the body only, but not who we are as sentient beings. The ghostly others, have communicated with me throughout my life, so this does happen, this “different” way of communicating.
What if there are other ways to communicate that we unfortunately don’t use while we are alive like telepathy, mind over matter and levitation. It seems through stories and recounted events, that shocking circumstances can prompt the use of these abilities. Why is it that people who come so close to death or perhaps die for minutes, bring back these abilities with them?
To me, ghosts are reminders that life continues on and if they can relay to me what lies beyond the life I know, I am more than willing to talk to them.
Yes, they do have a voice; it’s just not with vocal chords.Toggle panel: Therapy Settings
I am thinking there are Ghosts the exist among us, I believe I saw a statistic that said about 60% of the US Population believe in Ghosts. But only a small percentage of them actually have seen, felt or seen evidence of them. Some of the typical happenings that bring ghosts into the possible reality are the following; if you witness doors and cupboards opening and closing by themselves, seeing Owls before and after a death of a close friend or family member, electronics turning on and off on their own, items from loved ones who have passed on, showing up. Pets staring at apparently nothing. Finally, seeing something from out of the corner of your eye. And the rarest event is actually seeing a ghost, apparition, or spirits.
Last week, we saw the movie ” A Ghost Story “, it was not a blockbuster hit but it got me thinking about what ghosts are thinking? In the movie, the ghost says nothing, except for a few lines to another ghost, telepathically. Throughout the movie, the Ghost stands and observes the people around him, occupying the space he once lived in.
I do believe Spirits get attached to places they have a powerful connection to. I think it’s something like an electromagnetic field that they can’t break free from until something satisfies a need and cuts off a positive or negative polarity. In this movie, the draw of attachment, was a simple note in a crack of a door frame that his girlfriend had written and put in the crack, for him to see. I don’t believe she knew he was there but only hoped he was and hope is a powerful force that creates a binding polarity. Once he read the note the polarity was broken and he was released to go where he could create his new adventure.
So the lesson here is to the living, don’t create a field of holding on – let them GO.
Ghosts don’t think, they only wait.
Sleep tight — Life is forever, but time here on earth is a quick passing.
A while back I received a phone call from a woman who thought she had a poltergeist in her house. I listened to her talk about doors slamming, shadow people walking about and things being moved or disappearing. It affected one child but the rest of the family didn’t seem to be bothered by the activity. This made me think, “Why would a few members of the family be affected but not the rest?”
It seems that the activity followed this woman from one house to another. When I hear this happens, it’s clear to me that either, a person is the one being haunted and not the house or that they are Empathic which opens them up to spirits in and around the house itself.
As I was listening to this woman talk, a few things came to my attention. First, she was laughing about some of the experiences which made me wonder if it was just her way of dealing with stress or did she know something she wasn’t telling me? After about 20 more minutes on the phone, I realized that this woman not only had a secret but I was able to figure out what it was by a few things she said. She said she had a friend who dabbled in the occult. (Lightbulb moment) It came in loud and clear to me that she was had done some sessions with this woman. If you play with Ouija boards, do séances or play with magic spells, the outcome will likely come back and bite you in the booty or as in this case, slam doors and become a daily menace.
Interestingly enough, it was almost as if two voices were speaking through her to me at once, one pleasant and the other a bit darker. I knew at that moment, going to her house was out of the question.
Funny though, as if on cue, she urgently asked to me to come to her house that same day, stating that it was imperative that I help her out. I not only saw a set up but sensed it, but not from this woman, from whatever dark energy was controlling her and her environment. Sometimes, we have to say no to unsafe and undesirable situations.
Being an Empath has its advantages but it can also be a double edged sword especially when our guard is down or as in my case so many years ago, I was naive and green between the ears.
Years back when I was in my early twenties, I rented a house with my ex-husband in Arizona. I can’t quite remember if it was in Flagstaff or Williams but it was large, by a river with lovely views. It only had one problem; there was a bedroom that faced the hallway next to the master bedroom that was strangely odd, foreboding and terrifying. The owner, who was a famous writer and dietitian, was leaving to go abroad. He made a comment about the ominous room which made my skin and hair stand on end. He said, “Don’t go into that bedroom. It’s not welcoming and I don’t think you’ll feel comfortable in it.”
Come to find out, he lost two loved ones in the house. First, his wife and the other I believe was a son. I could only gather from this information that the infamous bedroom was his sons. From the day we moved in, I found it very hard to be anywhere near that bedroom. For instance, at night I would usually wake up to use the bathroom. I would lie in bed and try to get up enough courage to cross the hallway into the bathroom. I had to pass the doorway to “that” bedroom and found that every fiber in my being was yelling at me to stay in bed. My bladder on the other hand was screaming for me to hurry up and pee. What’s a girl to do?
Well … I would smack, roll over or talk loudly to wake up my ex and act like it was an accident. I knew that if he was awake than at least if anything grabbed me, he would be awake to rescue me. It wasn’t fun for him but I at least could make a run for the bathroom, peeing in record time.
Daytime didn’t make things any better. You know those stories on TV about the haunted house being dark even with all the windows open and the blinds up; well this house was exactly like that. The hallway leading to the scary door would always seem longer than it was. I couldn’t be in the house by myself and before long my ex got so exacerbated at me that he told me I had to finally face my fears.
With a knowing and long sigh, I slowly walked down the extremely long hallway with the floor somehow becoming uneven and moving, making me really dizzy besides that upchuck feeling like I was going to puke my brains out. The door was ominous and as I reached for the handle, it felt extremely cold to the touch, almost like I had grabbed on to an ice cube. The door creaked open and a gust of wind hit me, making me feel like I was in the North Pole. I can’t really explain it; it was like I passed beyond the veil into another world void of emotion, empty, dark and cold. Did I mention I could see my breath? The more I saw my breath, the more I felt like something was sucking the air out of me like a cinched up corset, way too tight. I felt eyes peering down on me from the moment I walked in. I knew that whoever was waiting and watching was going to pounce on me any second. The fight or flight feeling hit me like a ton of bricks and I flew out of there so fast that I didn’t even bother to close the door. But that didn’t matter because within seconds of me running out of the room,the door slammed shut behind me.
To be continued …
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
Click on for the flier — enjoy — looks quite interesting for you Ghost Hunter Types.
Paranormal Case Files Press Release-1