Creating My Odyssey

Quirky artist / writer / explorer / wild west, steampunk & ghost nut /renaissance soul / mental health & lifestyle blogger

Wednesday, 31 October 2018


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Husband possesses the third eye. So does his mum and so did son. They’re what you might call ‘fey’. There's something in the water.

    I shove Husband into historic properties booked for holidays first to check they're not haunted and he says:
'Nada. Not a sausage.' (He says it to shut me up. My imagination’s up there with the fairies.)         If he'd responded in the affirmative, I'd have demanded re-allocating to the nearest spanking new glass and steel hostelry. That's not to say that that won't be spooked, having perhaps been built on the site of an ancient monastery, the habitat of habited ghostly monks miffed at having holiday makers tromping around. 

 Some years ago we stayed in a historic property in Cornwall. The house had been 'modernised' in the eighteenth century with a new range added in the kitchen. I loved the place. It wasn't until we were driving home that Husband said:
'There was something on the landing.’
He tells me these things afterwards so that I don't freak out while we're there.
‘There was something on the landing. I felt it at night and shut the bedroom door on it. It was there in the daytime as well.’
Son sensed it too. He said that he wondered if the place was haunted. Creepy. Son is rarely creeped. Just tells ‘it’ to ‘**** off.’ Me? I sense zilch. Flat as the proverbial pancake except for my creeped imagination. Husband is a scientist and engineer. Rational. Logical.
'I can only tell you what I experienced.' 

Husband and son are sensitives. Not the kind of sensitive that weeps over a sunset (although they do that as well) but the sensitive of the 'something's lurking back there' variety. You may not believe in this malarkey but I think there's something. I can usually tell if Husband is sensing something by the look on his face. Sort of blank. A couple of years ago we toured a pre-English Civil War National Trust property in Oxforshire and his expression dawned as he stood in the end corner of a corridor busy with visitors.
'I've got to get out of here,' he murmured. We moved into another room. 'I sensed fighting, with swords. And I was depressed. Horrible.' He shivered. As we departed the house, he uttered: 'Walter.'
'Water? You thirsty?'
'Walter. The name's just popped into my head.'
'Ooooh. I gotta Google this back at the house.'
I'd brought my laptop with me. I typed the name of the house and the name 'Walter', and facts popped up. Ooh. Walter was an early owner of the property, information not mentioned in the National Trust brochure, and fighting had taken place in the house during the English Civil War. Our gobs were smacked. 

More recently, Husband and I visited an acquaintance, Rosie, in her 1890’s home in Hampshire. Over tea we chatted about the history of the house and the resident ghost who paced her son's bedroom, disturbing his sleep so much he had to change rooms. They thought that this may be the Victorian maid who'd fallen down the stairs and died. We also chatted about our friend’s very much alive dogs. As we left the house Husband said:
'The maid was Edith. She was standing behind me when Rosie was talking and I had a sensation of darkness. When Rosie began to talk about the dogs, Edith faded away. She doesn't like dogs.'
Back to Google and I typed in our friend's address, the name ‘Edith’ and looked up the 1891 Census. Up popped Edith Clarke, maid of that house. Whatever you think – claptrap or gobbledy-gook – it's bloomin’ fascinating. 

There's more. Our local pub is haunted by a dog and Husband has seen and felt it several times. Son worked in the pub, and he grew accustomed to glimpsing people-shaped shadows flitting past the open door while he worked in the kitchen.

I'm a seriously sensitive person. I get funny over adverse comments about my fashion sense, but things that go bump in the night? My imagination may be bonkers, but my spook sensitivity's as dead as a zombie. Which is just as well. If I saw anything, I'd squeal like a little girl and run. 

I watch programmes such as Ghost Adventures and every other ghost show when Husband lets me. (I used to watch Most Haunted but Yvette Fielding and her fellow girl investigators screamed a lot, which totally ruined it.) The four American guys who host Ghost Adventures are fun and charismatic and don’t scream a lot. Mostly they respond: ‘Whoa, whoa, bro…(or dude)…when something happens. They take photographs and record voices. Scoff if you will. I like it. 

Which all convince me that at least one experience out of a hundred may be real. Blow me down – ghosts, phantoms, spirits, apparitions – possibly really exist. But I don't want to see one. Which is why I watch ghost shows. They can experience it. I can watch them experiencing it in the safety and warmth of my sitting room.
As to Husband, I relish listening to his latest experience, but hey – he can keep ‘em!

I'd love to hear about readers' spooky experiences - bring it on!

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