CHILDREN AND THE PARANORMAL

From the works of JO-ANNE CHRISTENSEN, Ghost Stories Of British Columbia




     A woman was asked by her nine-year-old daughter what an aura was.  She tried to explain the halos, colour, and energy that are believed to emanate from each living thing, and the girl casually replied, "Oh those.  Everybody had those until grade one."

     Among people who believe in the existence of ghosts, it is generally accepted that children tend to be more sensitive to the phenomena than are adults.  The commonly held theory is that a young child's innocence and lack of conditioning allows him/her to accept what they see.  "Children...are less skeptical," writes Some Canadian Ghosts (1973), author Sheila Harvey; "less apt to criticize the evidence of their own senses."

     According to University of Regina parapsychologist Dr. Buddy Wynn, "Children do not yet hold socialized beliefs of what is and isn't possible.  They don't have the blinders on."

     It makes one wonder how many 'invisible friends,' are perhaps more than the product of a child's active imagination...


     KUKIN AND FRINDON


     Children with few playmates are often creative enough to invent their own.  When little Chris Dixon was only two years old, this is exactly what his parents thought he was doing.

     "He one day announced that he had two new friends," Chris's father, Dave Dixon recalled.  "He called them Kukin and Frindon."

     Dave and his wife, Patricia, thought nothing of it at the time, but years later, would view the arrival of Kukin and Frindon as the beginning of one of the strangest experiences of their lives.

     The Dixons had rented the same, small, two-bedroom bungalow on the outskirts of North Burnaby since before Chris was born.  It was, according  to Dave Dixon, "so old that a friend of my mother's who had lived in Burnaby all of her life could remember a woman who lived in the house giving birth to her fourteenth child.  This was in the 1930"s, and the house was old then."

     Like most homes its age, the Dixon residence was poorly insulated and could be a bit chilly in the winter months.  Still, there was no explaining how the smaller of the two bedrooms, which opened directly off the living room, was always colder than the rest of the house.  This odd difference in temperature and the eerie sensation of being watched - a feeling so strong that Patricia would often rouse Dave in the middle of the night, insisting that someone must have broken in - were the only indications of unusual events to come.

     Chris Dixon was born soon after his parents moved into the Burnaby house and, once he was old enough, the small bedroom became his.  This is where Kukin and Frindon, his invisible playmates, came to visit.

     As the months passed, Chris's account of these visits became increasingly detailed.  The stories soon seemed too sophisticated for a toddler to invent, and the Dixons began to wonder if their son's imaginary friends were really so imaginary.

     According to Chris, Kukin and Frindon only appeared at night, when everyone else was asleep.  They would arrive, he said, by walking through the wall.

     "Bear in mind," wrote Dave Dixon, "that Chris had no access to older children or Sci-Fi television programs."

     Concerned, Dave and Patricia began to question Chris more closely.  They asked their son where Kukin and Frindon came from.  Chris replied, "From the other side."

     "The other side of what?"  The Dixons pressed.

     "The river," he answered.  There was no river where the family lived.

     What alarmed Dave and Patricia most, however, was Chris's comment that Kukin and Frindon often wanted him to return with them, when they left.

     "At this point," wrote Patricia, "we felt that Chris might be in some danger and advised him never to go with them.  We repeated this warning time and again."
 
     The visits continued, three or four nights a week.  They ended only when Chris was three years old and the Dixons moved away.

     "After the first night at or new house, we asked Chris what his friends thought of his new bedroom.  Chris told us that his friends had to stay at the old house, they couldn't leave.  Chris never spoke of them again.  Which is not to say the Dixons never heard of them again.

     When Dave and Patricia moved out of the Burnaby house, two young men, who were their friends, took over the lease.  The arrangement lasted only two months.  The fellow who moved into Chris's old bedroom found sleeping there nearly impossible.  He would awaken at night, certain that he was being watched.  The feeling was so powerful that he began avoiding the room altogether, and slept on a recliner in the living room.  But, according to Dave Dixon, this didn't solve the problem.

     "One night he awoke with a stronger premonition than usual, and he looked across the darkened room to the doorway leading to the small bedroom.  In that instant, he believed he saw two shadowy figures standing just inside the bedroom.  He came fully awake and dashed into the bedroom, thinking kids had maybe come in through the window.  He found no signs of any intrusion."

     The next day, he and his room-mate decided to move out.  Apparently, they felt no need for the imaginary playmates that entertained Chris for a year.

     It is interesting to note that they young man could not have been influenced by the Dixon's own story.  According to Dave, they never told anyone of their son's experience.

     To this day, however, the Dixons are curious about the old bungalow and its shadowy inhabitants, Kukin and Frindon.  They speculate that perhaps there was a connection to the story of the woman with fourteen children, but cannot be sure.

     "Who the two children were, or why they continue to haunt the little house in Burnaby, we will never know," wrote Dave.

     What they do know is this:  the house still stands, and someone lives there today.  And very likely, Kukin and Frindon continue to make their night-time visits.

CAITIE'S FRIEND

     I always found it remarkable that children seem to be much more likely to see apparitions.  Some say it's because they don't manufacture any sort of logic to explain away what they see and experience.  What they see, is what they see.  Perhaps if we all thought this way, we'd all see ghosts at one time or another.  Another thing I find odd is the fact that many kids take on imaginary friends to keep them company.  Well, what if those imaginary friends aren't imaginary at all.  What if they are in fact, ghosts? 

     This next story is taken from the works of Jo-Anne Christensen, Ghost Stories of British Columbia.


     Caitie's Friend


     It was 1990 when Janice and Ed Clapp decided to leave their home in Ottawa in pursuit of a calmer existence on Vancouver Island.  With their two year old daughter Caitie in tow, they travelled across the country in a van searching for the perfect charming house to turn into a bed and breakfast venture.  They found that house on Windemere Avenue in Cumberland.  Whether they found the calmer existence is up for debate.

     "The house was eighty-five years old and in dire need of repair," Janice recalled.  Still, the Clapps were excited by the home's potential.  It boasted 3500 square feet, five bedrooms, and a distinctive history, having been originally owned by one of the founding members of Cumberland Hospital, a doctor by the name of McNaughton.  The home had charm, albeit hidden by years of neglect, and in August of 1990, Janice and Ed began working to bring it out.

     Part of the extensive renovation process was research.  As the Clapps wished not to alter, but enhance, the Windemere Avenue house, they asked dozens of questions about its original state.  By December 16, when they invited the public to an opening celebration, the home looked as grand as the day Dr. McNaughton moved into it with his family.  To those who attended the open house, it would seem the past had come alive.  Years later, Janice would wonder if, in fact, it hadn't.

     Little Caitie Clapp was two and a half when  the family moved into the restored home.  It is an age when children are typically imaginative, so her parents were not surprised when she began talking about the 'ghost' of a little girl in the corner of her bedroom.  They dismissed it as a phase Caitie was going through, yet with each passing night, she offered more details about the spectre.

     "Go away ghosts and goblins, witches, get out," became a bedtime ritual with Caitie, as her parents made a great business shooing unwanted paranormal types out of her room.

     "This took place every night for about three months," wrote Janice, "when we finally said she had to start the shooing on her own - and she did."  This passing of responsibility did nothing to discourage Caitie's fantasy, however.  The ghost, she claimed, was still there.

     It was around this time that the Clapps received a telephone call informing them that one of Dr. McNaughton's daughters was coming to Cumberland and would love to see her old home restored.  Anxious to see the woman's reaction to their work, Janice and Ed invited her for a tour.  It would prove interesting for everyone involved.

     Janice and Ed engaged Dr. McNaughton's daughter with the details of their extensive renovation.  She entertained them with stories of their home's past.  But it was one casual remark made after touring the bedrooms that captured Janice's attention.

     "She commented on how her sister had, in fact, died of influenza...and that although her dad was a doctor, there was nothing he could do."
  
     Janice was intrigued.  Could Caitie's ghost be the little McNaughton girl who was lost to the Spanish Influenza epidemic of 1918?  Suddenly, other odd occurrences seemed to bear greater consideration.  "I had often heard noises, like footsteps from the top floor when we were downstairs," Janice remembered, "but passed them off as my imagination."

     It is natural to wonder why, after more than sixty years, the spirit of the young girl chose to materialize for the Clapps - but there are theories that make sense of the situation.

     Renovations have often been reported to stir up paranormal activity; sometimes because the ghost takes offense at extensive changes, but more likely, in this case, because its former environment has been lovingly recreated.  The other probable explanation is that Caitie, at her sensitive young age, acted as a sort of catalyst, encouraging the phenomena.  This supports Janice Clapp's own conclusions.

     "To this day I often wonder if the ghost of the little girl was indeed some lost soul who left Windemere Avenue back during the influenza epidemic and came back to find a friend in Caitie," she wrote, also wondering if, had they stayed in the house, the ghost "would have made her presence more evident."

     There is no way of knowing.  Ed and Janice Clapp sold their beloved bed and breakfast in 1991, and the house has again undergone major changes.

     Does the little McNaughton girl approve?  Does she visit?  Only the current tenants know for sure.

GHOST HANDPRINTS

A Texas Ghost Story
retold by:  S.E. Schlosser

     I am so glad I found this author.  She writes a series of books on spooky stories, folklore, campfire stories, myths and etc...  Her wide variety of knowledge is breath taking.  A lot of stories I have heard before from when I was a kid - the man with the hook for a hand for example, but many I have never heard of.  So I'll share some stories I've researched from her works, and likely return to the works of one of my favorite investigators, Brad Steiger.  Let's get to the story.

     My wife Jill and I were driving home from a friend's party late one evening in early May.  It was a beautiful night with a full moon.  We were laughing and discussing the party when the engine started to cough and the emergency light went on.  We had just reached the railroad crossing where Villamain Road becomes Shane Road.  According to local legend, this was the place where a school bus full of children had stalled on the tracks.  Everyone on board the bus had been killed by an oncoming freight train.  The ghosts of the children were reported to haunt this intersection and were said to protect people from danger.

      Not wanting a repeat of the train crash, I hit the gas pedal, trying to get our car safely across the tracks before it broke down completely.  But the dad-blamed car wouldn't cooperate.  It stalled dead center on the railroad tracks.

     As if that weren't enough, the railroad signals started flashing and a bright light appeared a little ways down the track, bearing down fast on our car.  I turned the key and hit the gas pedal, trying to get the car started.

     "Hurry up, Jim!  The trains coming," my wife urged, as if I didn't hear the whistling blowing a warning.

     I broke out into a sweat and tried the engine again.  Nothing.

     "We have to get out!"  I shouted to my wife, reaching for the door handle.

     "I can't," Jill shouted desperately.  She was struggling with her seat belt.  We'd been having trouble with it recently.  She'd been stuck more than once, and I'd had to help her get it undone.

     I threw myself across the stick-shift and fought with the recalcitrant seat belt.  My hands were shaking and sweat poured down my body as I felt the rumble of the approaching train.  It had seen us and was whistling sharply.  I risked a quick glance over my shoulder.  The engineer was trying to slow down, but he was too close to stop before he hit us.  I redoubled my efforts.

     Suddenly, the car was given a sharp shove from behind.  Jill and I both gasped and I fell into her lap as the car started to roll forward.  Slowly at first, then gaining speed.  The back end cleared the tracks just a second before the train roared passed.  As the car rolled to a stop on the far side of the tracks, the engineer stuck his head out the window of the engine and waved a fist at us, doubtless shouting something nasty at us for scaring him.

     "Th...that was close," Jill gasped as I struggled upright.  "How did you get the car moving?"

     "I didn't," I said.  "Someone must have helped us."

     I jumped out of the door on the driver's side of the car and ran back to the tracks to thank our rescuer.  In the bright moonlight, I searched the area, looking for the person who had pushed our car out of the path of the train.  There was no one there.  I called out several times, but no one answered.  After a few minutes struggle with her seat belt, Jill finally freed herself and joined me.

     "Where is he?" she asked.

     "There is no one here," I replied, puzzled.

     "Maybe he is just shy about being thanked," Jill said.  She raised her voice.  "Thank you, whoever you are," she called.

     The wind picked up a little, swirling around us, patting our hair and our shoulders like the soft touch of a child's hand.  I shivered and hugged my wife tightly to me.  We had almost died tonight, and I was grateful to be alive.

     "Yes, thank you,"  I repeated loudly to our mystery rescuer.

     As we turned back to our stalled vehicle, I pulled out my cell phone, ready to call for a tow truck.  Beside me, Jill stopped suddenly, staring at the back of our car.

     "Jim, look!" she gasped.

     I stared at our vehicle.  Scattered in several places across the back of our car were several glowing hand prints.  They were small hand prints; the kind that adorned the walls of elementary schools all over the country.  I started shaking as I realized the truth; our car had been pushed off the tracks by the ghosts of the schoolchildren killed at this location.

     The wind swept around us again, and I thought I heard an echo of childish voices whispering:  "You're welcome," as it patted our shoulders and arms.  Then the wind died down and the hand prints faded from the back of the car.

     Jill and I clung together for a moment in terror and delight.  Finally, I released her and she got into the car while I called the local garage to come and give us a tow home.

AMERICAN FOLKLORE, BLOODY MARY

     I've always been interested in all folklore, especially how they originated.  How were they created?  Over active imaginations?  I would like to believe there is a little truth behind every legend.  Not that I'd like to believe there were spooky men walking around with hooks for hands, impaling helpless victims.  I'm assuming you know what I mean.  Everybody has heard of Bloody Mary.  I remember at school, a few of us would go into the bathroom, turn out the lights, spin around a few times, and then call to Bloody Mary, saying her name three times.  Nothing ever happened of course, but it sparked the imagination, and fear.

     I found this interesting interpretation of Bloody Mary, excerpted from 'Spooky Pennsylvania,' retold by S.E. Schlosser.

     BLOODY MARY

     She lived deep in the forest in a tiny cottage and sold herbal remedies for a living.  Folks living in the town nearby called her Bloody Mary, and said she was a witch.  None dared cross the old crone for fear that their cows would go dry, their food-stores rot away before winter, their children take sick of fever, or any number to terrible things that an angry witch could do to her neighbors.

     Then the little girls in the village began to disappear, one by one.  No one could find out where they had gone.  Grief-stricken families searched the woods, the local buildings, and all the houses and barns, but there was no sign of the missing girls.  A few brave souls even went to Bloody Mary's home in the woods to see if the witch had taken the girls, but she denied any knowledge of the disappearances.  Still, it was noted that her haggard appearance had changed.  She looked younger, more attractive.  The neighbors were suspicious, but they could find no proof that the witch had taken their young ones.

     Then came the night when the daughter of the miller rose from her bed and walked outside, following an enchanted sound no one else could hear.  The miller's wife had a toothache and was sitting up in the kitchen treating the tooth with an herbal remedy when her daughter left the house.  She screamed for her husband and followed the girl out of the door.  The miller came running in his nightshirt.  Together, they tried to restrain the girl, but she kept breaking away from them and heading out of town.

     The desperate cries of the miller and his wife woke the neighbors.  They came to assist the frantic couple.  Suddenly, a sharp-eyed farmer gave a shout and pointed towards a strange light at the edge of the woods.  A few townsmen followed him out into the field and saw Bloody Mary standing beside a large oak tree, holding a magic wand that was pointed towards the miller's house.  She was glowing with an unearthly light as she set her evil spell upon the miller's daughter.

     The townsmen grabbed their guns and their pitchforks and ran toward the witch.  When she heard the commotion, Bloody Mary broke off her spell and fled back into the woods.  The far-sighted farmer had loaded his gun with silver bullets in case the witch ever came after his daughter.  Now he took aim and shot at her.  The bullet hit Bloody Mary in the hip and she fell to the ground.  The angry townsmen leapt upon her and carried her back into the field, where they built a huge bonfire and burned her at the stake.

     As she burned, Bloody Mary screamed a curse at the villagers.  If anyone mentioned her name aloud before a mirror, she would send her spirit to revenge herself upon them for her terrible death.  When she was dead, the villagers went to the house in the wood and found the unmarked graves of the little girls the evil witch had murdered.  She had used their blood to make her young again.

     From that day to this, anyone foolish enough to chant Bloody Mary's name three times before a darkened mirror will summon the vengeful spirit of the witch.  It is said that she will tear their bodies to pieces and rip their souls from their mutilated bodies.  The souls of these unfortunate ones will burn in torment as Bloody Mary once was burned, and they will be trapped forever in the mirror.


     BURNT CHURCH

     Here's a story I've never heard of before, but I'm sure you'll find it as horrifying as I did.  It is also retold by S.E. Schlosser.

     She was sophisticated, poised, and cultured.  In retrospect, this should have made them suspicious.  A teacher like her should be presiding over a girl's school in London or New York, not seeking a position in a small town in Georgia.  But at the time, they were too delighted by her application to ask any questions.

     "It will be good for our daughter to learn some culture," the attorney's wife told the pastor's wife.

     "And our boy may find some table manners at last," the pastor's wife responded with a smile.

     School was called into session in the local church shortly after the arrival of the teacher.  And soon, the children were bringing glowing reports home.  Teacher was special.  Teacher taught them manners and diction as well as reading, writing and arithmetic.  All the children loved teacher.

     The parents were delighted by the progress their children were making at school.  Teacher had been a real find.  A God-send, said the preacher's wife.

     But not every one in town was so satisfied.  The local ne-er-do well - called Smith - had more sinister stories to tell.

     "That woman ain't natural," he told the blacksmith, waving a bottle of whisky for emphasis.  "I seen her out in the woods after dark, dancing around a campfire and chanting in a strange language."

     "Nonsense," the blacksmith retorted, calmly hammering a headed iron bar on his anvil.

     "They say she's got an altar in her room and it ain't an altar to the Almighty," Smith insisted, leaning forward and blowing his boozy breath into the blacksmith's face.

     "You're drunk," said the blacksmith, lifting the hot iron so it barred the man from coming any closer.  "Go home and sleep it off."

     Smith left the smithy, but he continued to talk wild about the Teacher in the weeks that followed.  During those weeks, a change gradually came over the school children.  The typical high-jinks and pranks that all children played lessened.  Their laughter died away.  And when they did misbehave, it was on a much more ominous scale than before.  Items began to disappear from houses and farms.  Expensive items like jewelry, farm tools, and money.  When children talked back to their parents, there was a hard edge to their voices, and they did not apologize for their rudeness, even when punished.

     "And my daughter lied to me the other day," the attorney's wife said to the pastor's wife in distress.  "I saw her punch her younger brother and steal an apple from him, and she denied it to my face.  She practically called me a liar!"

     "The games the children play back in the woods frighten me," the pastor's wife confessed.  "They chant in a strange language, and they move in such a strange manner.  Almost like a ritual dance."

     "Could it be something they are learning at school?" asked the attorney's wife.

     "Surely not!  Teacher is such a sweet, sophisticated lady," said the pastor's wife.
 
     But they exchanged glances.

     Smith, on the other hand, was sure.  "That teacher is turning the young'uns to the Devil, that 's what she is doing," he proclaimed up and down the streets of the town.

     "Don't be ridiculous," the preacher told him when they passed in front of the mercantile.

     "I ain't ridiculous.  You are blind," Smith told him.  "That teacher ought to be burned at the stake, like they burned the witches in Salem."

     The pastor, pale with wrath, ordered Smith out of his sight.  But the ne'er-do-well's words rang in his mind and would not be pushed away.  And the children continued to behave oddly.  Almost like they were possessed.  He would, the preacher decided reluctantly, have to look into it someday soon.

     That day came sooner than he thought. The very next Monday, his little boy came down with a cold and his mother kept him home from school.  When the pastor returned from his duties for a late lunch, his wife came running up to him as soon as he entered the door.  She was pale with fright.

     "I heard him chanting something over and over again in his bedroom," she gasped.  "So I crept to the door to listen.  He was saying the Lord's Prayer backwards!"

     The pastor gasped and clutched his Bible to his chest, as goose bumps erupted over his body.  This was positively satanic.  And there was nowhere the boy could have learned such a thing in this town, unless he learned it...at school.

     At that moment, the attorney's wife came bursting in the door behind him.

     "Quick pastor, quick," she cried.  "Smith is running through town with a torch, talking about burning down the school.  The children are still in class!"

     The pastor raced out of the house with the two woman at his heels.  They and the other townsfolk who followed them were met by a huge cloud of smoke coming from the direction of the church, where the school children had their lessons.  The building was already ablaze as frantic parents beat at the flames with wet sacks, or threw buckets of water from the pump into the inferno.  Smith could be heard cackling unrepentantly from the far side of the building, which was full of the screams of the trapped students and their teacher.

     The fire blazed with a supernatural kind of force, and the pastor thought he heard the sound of the Teacher laughing from within the building when it became apparent that no one could be saved.

     The church burnt for several hours, and when it was finally extinguished, there was nothing left.  Mourning parents tried to find something of their children to bury, And Smith wisely disappeared from town, his mission against the works of Satan completed.

     The teacher's burnt body was buried deep in the ground and covered with brick tomb.  The children's smaller bodies were interred beneath wooden crosses.  Of all the student's in the school that fall, only the pastor's small son survived.

     To this day, voices can be heard in the graveyard at Burnt Church, chanting unintelligible words, as the school children and the teacher once chanted in the woods outside town.  Sometimes apparitions are seen, and dark walkers who roam the graveyard at night.  And they say that a brick taken from the grave of the evil teacher can set fire to objects on which they are place.

WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN GHOSTS AND SPIRITS?

     You know, I didn't even know there was a difference between ghosts and spirits.  I figured they were words that meant the same thing.  My niece, Kim, sent me some information from http://wiki.answers.com/ that shed some light on the subject.  It still confuses me somewhat, but I thought I'd take this information that I read and relay it to you.  Perhaps you can grasp it better than I can.

     A ghost is a personality or a piece of a personality of someone who has passed that is left behind because there is something that is keeping them here.  There are many possible reasons of why they would stay behind here are the most likely reasons - they don't know they have passed.  This can happen if they were killed or died suddenly and usually tragically.  They could have been a murder victim or even possibly died in an accident that happened suddenly.  One haunting that I can think of to be a good example is the Villisca House haunting.  In the Moore home at Villisca, Iowa, 8 people were brutally murdered in the middle of the night.  The whole family, including two children that were staying the night with the Moore children were killed in their sleep with an axe.  The man who killed them was never found, leaving this gruesome murder a mystery.  The house is now said to be haunted by some of the victims of that tragic night.

Another reason a ghost might have stayed behind is because they feel an attachment to a place, object or even a person.  If they are attached to a place, it could be because it was what they considered to be their home, or even just a place that they had their happiest moments in their life.  If they're attached to an object it is usually an object that they held very dear to them.  If it is a person they have an attachment to, it is usually because they have such a great love for that person.  They may feel like that person still needs them.  Or they just might not want to leave that person behind.  An example of an attached haunting would possibly be the White House ghosts.  Former presidents are said to still roam the halls of this great house.  If you think about it being the President of the United States would most likely have been the happiest time of their lives and you most certainly would love for that to be your home I'm sure.  I know I would have certainly loved to live there just from all the history that has taken place there.

     Unfinished business could be another reason that a haunting could occur.  The ghost might feel the need to continue so that something could be finished or taken care of before they will pass on.  Winchester Mystery House comes to mind immediately for this one.  Sarah L. Winchester wanted her home to be built with many odd things built into it.  She hired carpenters to work on her home day and night.  Construction would never cease on the home until her death.  She was the widow of the inventor of The Winchester rifle, William Wert Winchester.  After the deaths of her husband and daughter, she contacted a medium for guidance.  This medium told her that the spirits of the victims of the Winchester rifle were wanting vengeance and the only way she could escape the curse that had befallen her husband and child was to build a home for herself and those spirits.  She must continue to build or she would die as soon as the building stopped.  In her home she had doors to nowhere, windows that were built to open up to a wall.  There would be many entrances to a room, but only one exit.  Stairs led to a ceiling and there were many other oddities.  This house was definitely a mystery.  Some of the carpenters worked on the home until their deaths.  Their ghosts are said to still be working on the home.  The noise of hammers sometimes will be heard and one phantom carpenter has been seen.  He is supposedly there guarding the home and overlooking the construction still being done even in the afterlife.  Sarah Winchester is even said to still be there.

     Then there are the residual haunting.  These are the hauntings that have no intelligence.  These hauntings are like a recording that has been imprinted on the land or home in which it takes place at.  They will happen at a certain time or date or just random.  It will be almost like a scene that is the same all the time.  It could also take place as noises or smells.  The perfect example of this is the Civil War battlefields.  Most of the hauntings that take place at these battlefields are sounds and smells of the ghastly war that took place on its grounds.  Cannon and gun fire have been the main residual hauntings from the battlefields, but there are reports of fleeting apparitions of men who still seem to be fighting the war as if it were still going on around them.

     Now this brings me to Spirits.  Spirits are different from ghosts because they are not bound to this earth.  Spirits are actually the passed on personalities of a living person.  Spirits will come back for a time.  They can come back for many reasons, but the most common is to tell a loved one a message or to help a loved one cross over.  There have been many accounts from people of a loved one coming  back to warn of impending danger, or simply to just let the loved one know that they are okay and happy.  There is also a belief that they will come back to comfort a loved one who is dying and make the transition of death a little easier on them.  Most spirits will return to where they came from after they have done what they came to do.  There are many personal experiences and I can not thing of a famous instance of this although I'm sure there most likely is.  One story I know of is a personal experience of my mothers.  After the birth of her first child she was sitting in her room brushing her hair as she looked into a mirror.  Suddenly, her face transformed into the face of her mothers, who had died when she was a young girl.  As she stared into her mother's face, she got the overwhelming sense that her mother was proud of her.  Her mother said nothing, just merely gave her that feeling.  My mother really truly believed that that was a visit from her mother.

     It would be nice to hear your views on this subject.  Do you believe there is a difference between a ghost and a spirit?  How would you translate the information above?  It is a subject I might research furthermore later on.  Anyways, that's all I got for now.

CAN A GHOST ATTACH ITSELF TO A FAMILY?

     It's not the first time I've wondered if it is possible that a spirit could attach itself to a family.  Like Kim and Tracy in the last two entries of this blog, Kim's daughter Natasha entertains the same idea.  They have all had experiences dealing with the paranormal.  With Kim and Tracy, it all began in Ontario.  Now that Kim has moved all the way across the country to Williams Lake, B.C., those paranormal experiences have not subsided, nor have they stayed hidden from her immediate family.  It seems anybody connected to Kim and Tracy becomes a believer fast enough.  I, myself, haven't experienced anything with Kim out of the ordinary as of yet, but I've only been in Williams Lake for about four months, so only time will tell if I will have the honor, or the horror - however you look at it, of witnessing first hand the entity that clings to her and her family.  I've been around taps that had a mind of their own, but that just about sums up my experiences.
     Natasha tells a story that begins several years ago when she was a child.  Although it is difficult to be certain 100% whether it is the same spirit Kim and Tracy dealt with in Ontario, there is some proof to that effect.  If you've had the chance to read the last two accounts, you will understand.  You can draw your own conclusions.

     Here is an account from Natasha.  I will not interrupt it one bit with editing - this is word for word, which is the same courtesy I extended Kim and Tracy.

     I think that we never really die.  I think that we either go somewhere bigger and better than our simple minds can even begin to imagine, or we stick around for whatever reasons.  I can't honestly say that I know for a fact that there is a heaven, however, I can honestly say that I know that we never truly die, and perhaps some parts of us stick around long after our body has disappeared.  The only reason why I say that so confidently is because of the things I have seen and heard throughout my lifetime, which is more than the average person can say.  I suppose I should do my best at telling my stories in order, but it's a little difficult.  I'm going to start with the things I remember as a little girl.

     My mom, dad, brother, and I lived in a town house on Gibbon Street in Williams Lake, B.C.  It had four floors.  The basement on one, the living room, bathroom and kitchen on another.  Above that was my parent's room, and then on the very top floor, with another bathroom, was my brother's and my room.  I remember some things very clearly about that house.  I recall how in the kitchen area, against the wall that you see as soon as you enter, my mother had porcelain masks hanging in a row.  One of those masks was painted to look like a cat.  It had ears and black fur around the face.  I remember the smile that was painted onto its face like it is a photograph stuck in my memory.  It had a very mischievous smile.  Although it was a mask, every now and again when I would walk by it, I remember there being eyes staring back at me.  Although it sounds a little crazy and difficult to believe, but the memories have stuck with me for fifteen years.

     That's not the only thing about that house that I remember.  We went through a lot of babysitters because after one night, they never wanted to return.  Tamara, who lasted the longest, was cleaning our kitchen, and was moving all the chairs out of the way so she could mop.  The last chair that she tried to pick up, would not be budged.  She couldn't move it.  I was sitting on the stairs and could hear her telling my mom "It felt like someone was sitting in it."

     My brother and I used to get in trouble all the time when we were living at that house.  But what stands out in my mind is when we were accused of biting on the blinds of all things.  They were white and plastic and there was always little teeth marks in them, but never once were we the culprits.

     Another recollection I have is when my sister Makayla was visiting for the summer.  My brother and I had to share his room while she stayed in mine with one of her friends.  She woke me up in the middle of the night and begged me to stay with her friend, Shay, while she took a shower.  By then, everyone was starting to get used to the house, but Shay still didn't want to be alone.  I was lying in the room with Shay and we were looking at a magazine, when my sister tried to come back into the room.  I remember her saying:  "This isn't funny guys, open the door."  Shay started to panic.  There was no lock on the door for us to lock, and we were across the room, nowhere near the door.  The door would just not open for her.

     A lot of freaky things happened in that house, from hearing people talking, to hearing them run up and down all of the stair cases.  I have a tape that we left recording one night when we all went out.  The house was completely empty, but on that tape that is currently sitting in a box in my bedroom, you can hear a child's voice clearly, screaming for his dad, drums being played, footsteps, and more footsteps.  We didn't live there long after that.  In fact, we have moved twice since then and have experienced further paranormal activity.

     On one occasion, my Grandma had given us Disney character toys for Christmas.  I had a Goofy toy with a string that you could pull and make his say different things.  My brother got a Mickey Mouse toy that was similar.  One night, after we were sent to bed, I kept hearing my brother's toy.  It was repeating the words "I love you," over and over again.  Figuring it was my brother playing around with it, I yelled at him to put the toy away.  He told me he wasn't playing with it.  Alarmed, we both started screaming for my mom.  Having horrifying experiences with toys before, she was quick to take the batteries from the toy, and toss the thing into the garbage.  Even then the toy still confessed it's love to whoever would listen.

     In our current house, a nice house on the corner of a busy street in Williams Lake, nothing has gone on here like I have experienced before, or maybe I'm used to it by now.  There is still an entity or two I'm sure.  I do hear people talking in the house every other night after we have gone to bed, but I think the only two things that have happened here that have come slightly close to the things I had experienced in the other houses would be the day me and my mom got into an argument the night we were talking about my great grandmother Jean(Jessica).  I don't remember what we were fighting about, but I was about to leave the house.  I was standing at the bottom of the stairs and she stood at the top.  Just before I was about to open the door, still screaming at my mom, a small doll that was sitting on top of a shelf by the door flew off the shelf and hit the wall on the opposite side, before hitting the floor.  And I have seen a little blond boy out of the corner of my eye run around the house and vanish.  Both my mother and I know who it was, but I will tell of that later.

     The other little incident that I recall, involved my great grandmother, Jean.  I was sewing with my mom at the kitchen table.  I was asking her questions about Jean.  I don't remember her very well and wanted to know more.  I was asking my mother if she remembered being at my grandmother's house for a dinner.  I was telling her about my only memory of Jean, and how I thought she was a scary woman.  Not long after those words came out of my mouth was my hair yanked on.  Mom started to laugh while I sat there kind of shocked. 

     My mother and my Aunt Tracy as well as other members of the 'Oliver' family tree have told me their fair share of stories and about our history.  Most o the strange stories I have heard about begin on that farm, a piece of land that once had a house that my grandpa built on it.  I have heard stories of other houses on that land, but not as many as I have heard about my grandpa's house.

     The first time I had been there, as soon as wee pulled into the driveway, I did not feel so good.  I suddenly felt upset, depressed, and just did not want to be there.  That was the first time I had seen the little blond boy.  I was coming out of the bathroom in the old house, and I had seen a little boy out of the corner of my eye run into a bedroom.  My Grandpa told me about Alfie, the little blond boy, who was my third cousin, who drowned in a river just behind the land the farm was on.

     When I left that day, my grandma gave me two candle holders with faeries on them.  As much as I loved those candle holders, having them made me feel wrong.  All I can say is that even after living in the townhouse that seemed to have many spirits staying there with us, I had never felt so much wrongness in a house before.

     After thinking about all that I have seen and heard and felt, it makes me believe that it isn't so much the houses we have lived in, or the land the houses are set upon, but the family that is effected by apparitions.  Can spirits be attached to a family?  How else can you be on one side of Canada and see the same spirit on the other?  Nonetheless, my family seems to share different, and the same paranormal stories.  It may have come from the old farm in Ontario, but it is now linked to our family.  I'm sure of it.

Natasha.

AN ANGRY GHOST IN ONTARIO

     This story is directly related to the story I wrote in the last entry, on August 27.  In that entry was an account of paranormal activity in Ontario told by Tracy.  This next story is told from her sister, Kim's, which coincides with some of the information Tracy has already divulged, plus some tantalizing extra insights.  So again, this is a word for word account by Kim.

     I think for anyone who might read this to really understand the experiences that my sister(Tracy), and I have wrote, it is important to also touch on some of the family history and also of the area.  The majority of occurrences take place in a rural northern Ontario community on a family farm that had been passed down through the generations beginning with my great-grandfather Alfred on my dad's side of the family.  Although it isn't clear how much land Alfred had purchased.  I am told Alfred and his wife Ella Mae chose to raise their children on one small lot that later became my home.

     From all the information and statements that I gathered over the years, I believe that Alfred had divided the land between two of his children, son Jack, and his daughter Grace.  Jack with his wife Jean later lived on the same piece of land as Alfred.  Grace, married to George, built a home on the far western corner, not far from a fairly large creek that ran down the length of property.  Grace and George had three children, the eldest daughter, Edith Jane, son, Alfred George, and youngest, Frederick James.

     On June 15, 1950, the children were playing by the creek, when the youngest boy Freddie had fallen in.  Alfred George, named after his grandfather, is believed to have went to the aid of his brother first and quickly headed into the water, and his sister, Edith followed. Tragedy struck, and after a thorough search, all three bodies were found in the creek that evening by my grandfather, Jack.  Edith was 11 years old, Alfie was 9, and Freddie was just 7.

     Now the stories I have been told about the first house that stood on the farm are chilling o say the least.  I wish at times I knew more about the history of the house, and whether or not it was actually built by my great grandfather or if it had already been there when he required the property. 

     Jack and his wife Jean lived in this along with four of their children before their marriage ended.  From what I understand, Jean moved west and unable to take the children, Jack remained in the house with two daughters - my dad and his younger brother, Jackie.

     Reports of this house from my dad and grandfather Jack, ranged from hearing voices, numerous people running up and down the stairs or having conversations, and it escalated to items being thrown at the kids.  This seemed to happen on a daily bases and it didn't seem to matter what time of day or night.  My dad's oldest sister, Claudette, seemed to take the worst of the damage.  My grandfather told me that once during a heated argument between Jean and Claudette, a hot frying pan sitting on the stove violently threw itself at Claudette and hit her in the back, leaving a terrible burn and a bruise.

     There was also an old barn on the farm that had an old style door latch for a handle.  The youngest child, Sam, was so little at the time, she was unable to work the latch open.  She'd rattle it back and forth to no avail.  She could not force it open.  When Jean left to move to the west, Sam went to live with a friend of the family until Jean was able to send for her.  Even though she was gone from the house and property, The boys, who remained at the old house, could ofter hear the door handle rattle and click as if Sam was on the other side trying to get in.

     The only real memory of the first house that I have is in 1978-79, when I was about 8 or 9 years old.  My father had saved up enough to start building his own home on the farm and I remember going with him and my mother to the farm to pick out a spot for the new house.  Just as we were getting out of the car, my dad told me to stay out of trouble and I was not allowed to go in the old house.  As my dad roamed around, I remember peeking through the old glass windows and seeing all sorts of neat things in the rooms.  I remember thinking that although everything was tarnished with dust and dirt, it was almost inconceivable that it was empty.  I got this notion that people should still be living there.  I recall seeing pictures still hanging on the walls and cups on the table.  Then something shiny on the floor caught my eye, and I knew right away that it was money.  It looked funny to me.  I had never seen this type of currency before.  They were shiny new, and large and so many of them.  I remember wanting them so badly that I figured if I begged my dad long enough, he would let me have them.

    
Calling for my mom first, I hoped that she would go into the house and get me this money.  I pointed through the window at the money on the floor for my mother to see.  She hollered for my dad(Boyd) to come look.  "Boyd, you got to come see this.  There is a pile of silver dollars on the floor!"  I remembered getting so excited.  I was jumping and dancing around my mom, entertaining the belief that we had suddenly become super rich.  My dad peered through the window and to my disappointment, he didn't seem to care one bit.

"Can I have them dad, please dad, can I have them?"  No sooner did that come out of my mouth did I regret it.  The expression on my dad's face changed so quickly.  His good mood suddenly plummeted and anger and hatred took its place.  With his face all twisted, blackened eyes, and his voice deep and low,  said:  "I said no.  No one is allowed in the house."

     My father never got that angry with me.  In fact, that was the first time that he actually scared the hell out of me.  Running back to the car in tears, I heard my mom yell with panic in her voice:  "Boyd!  What the hell is wrong with you!"  Immediately after that, we left and that was the last time I seen the old house still standing.  Or so I thought.  I actually did see the old house once more after that, but it was years after my dad tore it down.  Yes, I'll explain that later.

     A few weeks after the silver dollar incident, my dad and his brother went to the farm to start tearing down the old house.  My dad was persistent, calling hydro several times to make sure it was safe - that the power was turned off before they begun to dismantle it.  My dad then climbed on the roof and started disconnecting wires.  I don't know if he did get a jolt or if he luckily figured it out first, but I remember him coming home mad as hell.  He called hydro and after a lot of swearing and yelling, he asked them if they were trying to kill him.  Although Hydro swears that the pole was dead, and the work order was completed, mysteriously, the power still ran live to the house.

     After the house was only a pile of rubble, the construction of the new house began.  The new house was built directly across from the old, several hundred yards apart.  Some lumber was salvaged from the old house, which was also used in the construction of the new house.  I am not completely convinced that using old building material for the new house could be the only explanation for all that happened, but I am sure it didn't help matters.

     A year later, the house was completed.  My dad's brother, Jackie bought a trailer and moved it to the south side of the property across from ours.  Only the Trans Canada highway divides the two pieces of land.  I only mention this little fact because the experiences in Jackie's home, although mild in comparison to ours, adds further credence to the idea that it could be the property as a whole that is disturbed.  Or...maybe it's a freakishly weird family curse that knows no boundaries.  There were so many experiences that I find it hard to know where to start.  It's impossible to list all the events chronologically.  In fact, this is my third or fourth attempt at even writing this paragraph.  As soon as I recall one experience, another memory even more unbelievable than the first creeps into my mind.

     I think I'll start with the clown.  I hate clowns.  I cannot remember exactly how old we were.  I was maybe 11, Tracy 5 or 6, and my brother Kevin was about 2.  My grandfather Jack bought Kevin this red stuffed musical clown.  The ones with the wind up red ball nose, and would play a tune when it was wound up.  One night I heard Tracy and Kevin screaming from the bedroom - a high pitched blood curdling scream I will never forget.  I must have been sweeping up the floor, as the next thing I remember is being in the bedroom doorway with the whisk broom in my hand.  The kids were sitting in the middle of the bed.  I got this tingling sensation, and numbness all over my body.  I followed the children's gaze to the corner of the room to my left.  Still in the doorway, I then heard the laughing and giggling.  There it was, the clown, on the ceiling, spinning head over heels in circles.  Then it stopped upright and violently shook while continuing its incessant giggling.  Somehow I mustered up a good dose of courage, and in an instant, I was underneath it, and beating the abomination with the broom.  With each strike I kept telling myself that it wasn't hard enough.  I'm not sure how long it took - maybe a few seconds, or a few minutes, but it felt like a lifetime to knock that little red bastard off the ceiling.  I don't remember what happened to the clown in the days to come.

     There were two other incidents that took place involving toys that would take on a life of their own.  There was a yellow toy telephone that would ring and roll its eyes when pulled by a string fastened to the front.  If left out, we were certain to be woken in the middle of the night, hearing it ring up and down the hallway outside our bedroom.  It wasn't until the phone chased my sister down the hallway did my mom finally get rid of it.

     As far as actual spiritual manifestations in the house, there were not too many that I can recall.  At times, strange figures I could see out the corner of my eye, or a glimpse of their reflections in windows or mirrors.  The only spirit I can honestly say I have clearly seen was that of a little blond haired boy.  It wasn't until my dad saw the little boy that we started to call him Alfie.  My father reassured us that Alfie had been around for years and was quite harmless.  Dressed in blue coveralls and tousled dirty blond hair, Alfie seemed to be a little shy, as he was either peeking around corners or running from room to room.  On one occasion, my cousin Dwayne was visiting at our house with the intention of staying the night but he had quickly changed his mind after he followed Alfie down the hall into one of the rooms believing that he was following my brother.  Neither my brother or sister were home at the time and even though I tried to convince Dwayne that everything was fine, he still insisted that he wanted to leave.  Dwayne wasn't our only house guest to report that they had seen Alfie, and over the years, my dad became proficient in calming people's fears and keeping the panicked reactions to a minimum.  I saw Alfie four times on the old farm and at least three times years later after my own move to B.C. 

     Unfortunately Dwayne wasn't the only person who left our home after a paranormal experience, stressed and scared.  One evening while my parents were out, the neighbors had sent their youngest son, Dave, over to sit with me and watch the kids.  The reason for this was because there was a terrible lightning storm coming through and I was really too young to be alone with the kids and without a phone.  Ontario lightning storms can be the most amazing and frightening experiences.  The night was as black as could be, but with the flash of lightning you could see clear across the fields as if it were a mid-summers day.  The sky would light up for fifteen seconds or so, and it would be long enough for your eyes to adjust and clearly see your neighbors home across the highway.  As Dave and I stood watching the light show through the big picture window, the wind picked up and was tossing a wheel barrel down the lane.  At first it looked like a scene right out of the Wizard Of Oz, and I laughed at Dave who had to go outside to case the barrel down before it caused any damage or reached the highway.  Still at the picture window and Dave outside, we both waited for the next flash of lightning to see where the barrel was headed.  Just as the sky lit up, Dave was gone, suddenly running directly across the driveway toward the barrel, which was being held against a tree by the wind.  Just before he reached it, the sky went black for a second or two, and then another flash lit up the sky even brighter than before.  The wheel barrel was still against the tree and right behind the tree stood the first old farmhouse.  It was tall, grey and weathered looking with windows that appeared to be staring right at me and watching like it was alive.  I heard a loud scream and I witnessed Dave stop dead in his tracks, and then he stumbled and fell backwards on his butt as he tried to turn and run back to the house.  Back in the house and white as a ghost, Dave started flashing the outside light on and off which was our safety signal to the neighbors that there was trouble and to come to their aid.  Without saying a word and visibly shaking, he waited for his brother Stan to pull up to the house.  When he did, Dave jumped on his dirt bike and left.  Although we never talked about it later, I can only assume that Dave saw the same image of the old house as I did.

     I wish I could better describe the feelings and emotions that a person could experience just by being on this farm - isolated, depressed, feeling a heavy burden and often guilt.  Many times there were bursts of anger, which led to a lot of violence.  Of course with the alcohol abuse that the family endured for so many years can be blamed for a lot of those incidents, but sometimes I wonder if something else didn't bring it on.  There were many moments when the two least likely people would turn violent and angry toward each other over something so minuscule that you might consider that there were other forces at work.  Once, my dad's brother Jackie, who is the most calm and easy going man in the family, came home one day after work to find out some family were visiting from Cochrane for the weekend and he was less than impressed.  You see, while Jackie was at work, one member of the visiting family, Richard, stopped in to see his family and with Jackie's wife's permission, took the kids for a little ride on Jackie's four wheeler.  When Jackie found out he became uncharacteristically angry and violent, beating the hell out of Richard.  My dad was called over to calm Jackie down, and he was quick to send the family away before further trouble brewed.  This seemed like further evidence to my theory that something more going on than anyone could possibly fathom.

     Both the land and the house had a way of taking things and giving back.  It was normal to have items disappear for long periods of time, only to show up later in the most unusual places and sometimes not even in the house.  Missing items such as books, dishes and once even a toothbrush, turned up in the barn.  There were times items that we had never seen before would just appear amongst our things - cutlery even of all things.  One time a strange butter knife appeared, which almost drove my mother crazy with fear.  The image on the handle was of people crawling up a ladder or rope with flames and the devil beneath them.  For years, my mother had a garden and every fall and spring either my dad or my mom would turn over the soil to have it ready for planting.  One time, my mother uncovered an old rock foundation while working that was the same size as her entire garden.  A year later in the same spot, she dug up an old button up shirt and a pair of denim pants.

     As kids growing up in that environment, we all had made a vow to each other that as soon as my parents no longer needed that house, we were going to burn it the first chance we get.  I have since moved my parents into another house in the same town, and my father insisted to be the one to tear the farm house down.  It took him the last two years to do so, and just this last spring, he applied for a permit to burn what remained.  Two weeks before he was to burn it, it is believed that a vehicle passing by on the highway tossed out a cigarette which started a grass fire on the property.  The fire quickly spread down toward the house and in the end, the old barn, and stretched to the hay fields beyond.  What was left of the old house was the foundation and floor, untouched by the flames and still remain.

     Although we laugh about it now, it does play on the question that because things happened to us while living on the farm, is it the land or some kind of family connection.

Kimberly