headless & dishes

Forty-six years ago, was the year I knew I was different. Feeling like a complete outcast by age five does something to you. No one could relate to me, and for the most part, I was on my own, perfectly surrounded by demonic entities, coloring books, and one incredibly mean and cruel birth mother.

I was trapped in two worlds. I had just moved back home, back to Granny, my real mama. I was violently taken from her at age three and forced to live with my birth mother in Key West. Don’t worry; she shipped me back home during my kindergarten year. Two and a half years was enough torment for both of us.

Safely back home, Granny and I are watching TV in the family room. It was just her and I that night. I was getting sleepy and decided to go to bed. As I’m leaving the family room, I pass through the kitchen, and as I reach the hallway, about to turn left, I casually and innocently, glance to my right.

I will never forget this night.

There stands a man, in a bumblebee colored striped shirt, in the hallway. He’s looking straight at me. He looks exactly like a living person, but he’s about a foot off the ground. He’s dead. He’s standing there, not moving, and my heart felt like it was going to fall right out of my chest. Time stopped. I was so desperately scared. My ears hear nothing but the desperate beating of my own failing heart. This man had been running before almost colliding into one another, but I only saw him standing, not running, but yet, I felt like I had just been running. Very weird sensation. My heart was trying to beat itself out of my chest, squeezing my chest tight, so tight that I was having a hard time breathing. Unbeknownst to me, he was taking me through his very emotional, intensely sad, and tragic death. I just didn’t know it at the time. He consumed my five-year-old body, with his torturous, irrational, and near panic-stricken emotions. This night was the first of thousands that I would experience like this. It’s not like I asked to be born this way. I’m like a human sponge to energy, I am what I am, Sam I am.

I’m barely on the edge of turning six, and in an instant, this man takes me to a place, a place of real torment. This place is in his soul. He didn’t want to die, and he’s been running ever since, trying to escape. “I don’t want to die; it’s not my time; I don’t want to die; it’s not my time.” He kept repeating this over and over. He’s simply refusing to accept his death and is in a state of endless torment. Lost. What happened next to my chest, felt like I was dying. He knew he was dying, and he couldn’t breathe, then I couldn’t breathe. I was struggling to catch my breath, and my chest voluntarily tightens up, soaking up a tightness that is undeniably unnatural, and I’m once again consumed with so many emotions, as this man slowly dies. The next instant, I’m nauseous. I’m drowning, and I’m throwing up water, struggling to breathe, and then nothing. He consumed every inch of my body, and I’m left ragged and limp with sinking regret and agonizing sadness.

I know how this man died, he died by drowning. He did not want to die, and he definitely didn’t want to leave his family behind. What he did, he took me through his death, and I felt for the first time how it feels to die by drowning. He will continue to run until he accepts his death. It’s that simple. That’s what they mean by “Rest In Peace.” Literally, please Rest In Peace, the man in the bumblebee shirt, Rest In Peace. May God bless you and have mercy on your soul, amen.

Pretty nice bedtime story, huh? Moral of the story, I’ll never turn down hallways like a normal person ever again, and the other is simple, don’t drown. I told you the laundry list of ways of dying in the previous chapter, and I definitely do not recommend jumping off bridges, intentional or not, or going without life preservers, even for advanced swimmers, like myself. Drowning, it’s agonizingly slow, terrifyingly painfully, and to be frank, not quick enough for me. But that’s just my opinion, try it and get back with me, you’ll see that I was right.

While my body was drowning, I react the only way I know. Scream. This was the scream, to end all screams. I can remember almost passing out by fright alone, and then from my own scream, from the lack of oxygen. That scream was nearly an out of body experience. If Granny were here, she’d tell you, “that night, and that scream, I swear it took ten years off my life.”

Before I can complete my 180 back to Granny, he’s running towards the family room, and then slowly vanishes. Gone, just like that. Running behind him, he took with him his exceptionally long blonde hair, billowing out from behind him, as he dissolved into thin air. He had been wearing a very impressionable yellow and black striped shirt; he reminded me of a bumblebee. Remember, I’m five. After this encounter, I stayed fixated on that shirt for many many decades. I’ll never forget his shirt. Never. I’ll also never forget the look on his face when he looked at me. He seemed overly shocked that I could see him, or perhaps he was shocked that my scream just woke the dead. I’m sure heaven and hell, for that matter, heard me that night. You’ll see a pattern with my constant screaming and why I have unhealthy relationships with hallways and doors.

Insert Stephen King hallway scene, and that’s been my life up to this point, and I’m about to graduate kindergarten.

Once I had reached the family room, I threw myself into Granny’s waiting arms, as I scream-tell her, that there is a man, and he is choking me. Sweet Jesus, not again. Fear injected itself in her eyes, and horror removed the color from her face, but bless her heart, she stayed so calm. She carried me around for the rest of the night as I hung tightly on her neck. She knew I wasn’t going to let go, not anytime soon. She chauffeured me around, as I pointed out every room, every cupboard, and closet in the house. Even the attic and garage were checked. Still dangling around her neck, I made her get on all fours, with me clinging on her back and check underneath the beds. I had to see this for myself. I begged incessantly for her to go to the basement. We had no basement. It didn’t matter; I desperately wanted to go to the basement. I was adamant. I wanted to go to the basement that never existed. The house isn’t haunted, but he haunts the area near his death, the lake nearby. He’s just running through the neighborhood and, unfortunately, our house, on that one fateful night, forty-six years ago.

Granny told this story for decades. She said that night when she heard me screaming, made all the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up. Not only did my scream reach record levels, but she can hear me running, running straight for her, and for a split second, she said that scream didn’t sound human. I don’t know who had it worse.

Reluctantly, I remember going to bed that night, neatly tucked in, and frozen in such a state of fear, that I believe this night was the single building block to my Childhood Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. After triple checking all the doors, my Aunt Rubi came home later and found the front door open. Knock knock, anyone home?

I can only imagine what it was like raising a child like me and what it took. Granny had to be terrified 24/7. All she knows and all she can see is absolutely nothing. Things are never as they seem. Granny that night got to see a real glimpse into my life. Poor her.

For my entire life, when I speak of the dead, and this includes anyone alive, they’re eyes do the talking, and most tell me to shut the fuck up. I got this look repeatedly from Cam, my brother, and learned quickly that I was alone on this island. I was being hunted and haunted and had no one to turn too. I did my best to act normal, and not bother my poor frightened brother, and we’d go back playing with our matching matchbox cars. Very isolated island when you’re on the cusp of turning six-years old.

It’s December and as I opened the dishwasher, I glanced through my snowy window and saw Grandad standing there in my backyard, headless, again. He’s come to visit me, but waltzing in without a head is nothing but afterlife drama.

In life, Grandad was my molester and my abuser. He put me through the kind of hell no child, nor adult for that matter, should ever go through. After some intense therapy with the dead and the living, Grandad is now my fiercest warrior and protector. He told me where he failed as a grandfather while alive; he will be my protector while I’m on this side of life.

Grandad. I knew, well, 99.9% sure I had forgiven him, and yet, I knew he hung in this isolated limbo with that lingering 0.1%. That 0.1% feels like dread to me. I felt terrible, but honestly, I didn’t know if I could ever give 100%. He drifted in this state for the last 23.5 years. I’m only human after all.

A few years ago, Granny showed up in what I refer to as my dead dreams. She specifically came to show me what 99.9% forgiveness looked like. Insert “As the Afterlife Dies.” Season 1; Episode 1. Ghost counseling at its finest.

Granny, this lady is my angel. While alive, she taught me everything I know. How to cook, sew, bake, decorate beautiful cookies, and how to create fabulous bows. I got all of her crafty talents. She’s such a comedian and a hoot, especially on the other side of life. Funny and all, she still gets on my case. She is constantly telling me to focus. Like a well-worn record, this woman won’t stop. This is her being dead.

While alive, Granny was comical, but she didn’t know it, which I think made it even funnier.

One day in the late 80’s I came home to this whooshing and swirling sound, and curious what was making this racket, I followed it. I found myself in the back family room. Whoosh whoosh

There, rapidly peddling away on this exercise bicycle, sits Granny. She’s peddling very fast because nestled between her chocolaty lips, sits a half-eaten Snickers bar, and keeping her entertained, is Dr. Bob Hughes, from As the World Turns. She’s totally in love with Dr. Bob. This woman watched TV every second of the day. She unknowingly tormented me with her all TVs. Full blast. The sitting room TV could always tell you the weather and her bedroom TV, well, it was always set on QVC, and my favorite was the family room TV, which was always set to The Price is Right or her endless soaps, depending on the time. Yet, struggling through all this energy disaster I called home, I never once complained. She taught me all my driving moves; this woman could take turns that made the cars behind us turn gray. I shake my head, smile wide, and hope that I turn out just like this beautiful and funny woman.

Granny loves showing up in my dead dreams, as I’ve never dreamed normal dreams. She knew this about me when she was alive, and I think she’s taking advantage of the situation. Snort. They say everyone dreams, but I’ll be the odd one in the group. I can’t recall the last time I had a normal, human dream. The dead love to visit me, and I’m all about hospitality. Most are my relatives, where we get to say goodbye, that one last time. I can recall each visit, dating far back as my early childhood. During these visitations, I get direct messages, heavens 3D version.

Granny shows up one night, eagerly telling me about the latest drama. When we speak, we don’t use our lips; speaking is done through our thoughts. Telepathy. What I think comes out. I especially have to watch my mouth there. Nervous giggle. It’s the afterlife’s only form of communication. It would be unnatural to use your lips there, as it would be equally strange to use telepathy with the living.

While she is chatting with me, she quickly showers me with love. Love is a tangible object over there, even though you can’t see it. Granny lets me peek through, yet another veil, to what I call heaven’s colors. WoW. These colors have not yet been seen by the living, not until you walk through to the other side of life. These colors will leave you in a state of awe. The colors are alive, tangible, and lovingly wrapping itself around your entire being, with so much unconditional acceptance. The color palette we humans have been painting with are all faded, all wrong. Green is sharper, greener there. This is definitely an area that is hard for me to express and articulate fully, and I guess this is where I tell you, you’ll have to wait and see it for yourself. Talk about art. Let me say this; I think Van Gogh is super freaky happy with his brushes these days … he’s literally, in heaven.

Tonight, Granny came here on a mission. She wants to show me what forgiving 99.9% looks like. She took me to his zip code, so to speak, where purgatory has placed him, or correction, where his crimes have placed him. His own personal hell. He did this to himself, and he has to get himself out of it, normally all by himself, unless you have a devoted dead wife, loving you enough to intervene on your behalf, and it helps that your victim is your psychic granddaughter. She’s like like a moderator in our afterlife family therapy session. This is session #2.

Grandad’s hell might seem a bit off, but this is Granny’s story. I’m just telling you what she showed me. Granny is once again driving, and I’m in the passenger seat. I turn around and see Grandad driving behind us. We get to this massive parking lot and park in front of Denny’s. The restaurant. That’s weird, right? I got out and just stared, and definitely with my mouth open. With these huge windows facing us, you can see into Dennys. For as far as the horizon, I can see millions of booths and tables, decorated exactly like the ’80s. I’m lost for words. Happiness bubbles up, as I recall the hundreds of meals and laughter we shared at these tables. Growing up, this was my dining room. On any given day, I can tell you the soup and probably the special of the day. Blink.

The very next second, we are seated at a very familiar booth. We were just standing in the parking lot, mouth still open, and the next, we’re seated at a big corner booth. I look up, and there’s a tall man with short, brown hair, and I instantly know that he is acting as my maître d’. My guide. He is just standing there, void of emotion on his face, and he faces straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact. I understand that while I am visiting, he will watch me, but he will never look at me. Okay. Rude.

You see very little here, and I know, I had just walked through yet, another veil, another layer.

In awe, I take in all the booths along with the low murmur of millions of dead diners, chatting away. To be honest, I’m a bit annoyed that Mildred and her son are sharing our table. Just as I’m about to complain, blink.

I blinked to find us seated at a different booth. I look up, and there’s my maitre’d, once again, standing next to me. Let’s give him a name. “Charlie,” just read my thoughts. Sneaky little … You have to watch what you think here. Talk about mindfulness and stilling your mind. It takes me a moment to adjust to the language, how they communicate here. Weird that I didn’t even have to complain and he knew to move us, just like that. He also knew our preferences, a booth, and not a table. Charlie’s incredible, even if he won’t look at me. No wonder he works at the Dennys between the clouds. Will this be one check or two? Snort.

Granny’s message was urgent. She just told me to focus, yet once again. Energy is precious there. She is sitting to my left and immediately starts downloading me with several messages, one rapidly, on top of the other in order to get out as much as possible and in the shortest amount of time. One minute she’s sitting next to me, the next, I look up and see Grandad, through her thoughts, sitting in his car staring back inside the restaurant. I understood immediately that he will never be able to join us or anyone. He will never get out of the car. He can only watch us and view us from a distance. He can’t talk to us, not to Granny, nor any of the dead. They, in turn, know not to speak to him. They have no desire one way or the other. They are entirely without judgment and are indifferent. It’s not out of spite, it is the law, and there is a no breaking these particular laws. Smile. Candid camera.

My internal cinema ended once I acknowledged what forgiving 99.9% looked like. I guess 99.9% isn’t 100%, after all. There’s something with % and me. We don’t like each other.

There he sits, suspended if you will, in his clear bubble of isolation and no one can help him out, only he, himself can. Its called paying for your sins, and what it takes to be at peace in the afterlife.

Well, shit.

Forgiving him at 99.9% will keep him there indefinitely. I also know in an instant that granting 100% forgiveness comes with absolutely no pressure, nor desired outcome. I understand the meaning within the message. Loud and clear.

In case you missed it, let me explain.

As a human being, I know I carry the weight of that 0.1% around. It’s similar to one tiny sand crystal. So small and so innocent, but it can bring down the whole body if you let it. Granny’s message was to help me. I need to release all his burdens, and let Grandad carry all of them for me. Give him that remaining 0.1%. Granddad has overwhelming and sincere regret. Like love, his regret is also tangible. Why on earth wouldn’t I totally forgive him that 0.1%? I’m done carrying around that soup sandwich life handed me. He is 100% sincere about carrying all his crimes on him. There. That’s all you had to say.

Now I feel even worse.

The second I understood Granny’s message, I woke up telling her that I will work on it. She was just there in front of me, and I didn’t get a chance to hug her, nor say goodbye. Sniff.

In a blink, she downloads me with a ton of messages. The amount of energy it takes to receive messages is staggering. My best analogy. Go sit down with a 400-page book and make sure you get comfy. Sit there until you finish reading that book from front to back, without stopping or getting up. The end.

I’m going to take a break from unloading my dishwasher and Grandad and tell you about that charming little eight-year-old girl that I mentioned earlier in chapter one. I know first hand, the true evil that swirls around Grandad.

It’s not every day you meet a close descendant of the Devil, dressed in a pretty dress on the playground.

I’m in California and, once again, trying to live with my birth mother. It was a fabulous time if you call working for your food and addressing your birth parents as Mr and Mrs while slaving away. The laundry list of abuse bubbled and often overfilled at her house. This woman was brutally and emotionally traumatizing to my very essence. She said I was the product of rape. My father says the opposite. They were married and working on the marriage. It failed, and she was left pregnant with an unwanted child. I believe I felt her unadulterated and pure hatred for me straight from the womb. Her hate is simply, palpable. I did my best to escape. I’m in the 3rd grade and trying to stay low key, and breathe as little as possible. While trying to be invisible, I retreated to the outdoors and played outside as much as humanly possible. It was my church, even back in the early days. As a child, I knew I had an enormous amount of energy. I’d swing, flip and somersault for hours. One day while escaping the clutches of Mama Cruella, I went next door to the community playground. I’m completely by myself. I’m swinging pretty high and had reached the height when your belly tries falling back into your lap.

I can remember this like it was yesterday.

With my belly falling into my lap, time seemed to stop. In exaggerated slow motion, and cresting over my knees, I see this golden blonde haired girl standing in front of me. She just appeared.

I can’t breathe.

You can’t just walk up on the playground; you have to walk around the baseball diamond first. You will see anyone or anything coming, period. I’m trying to convince myself that it’s possible that she’s human, as she looks very much alive, just like you and me.

Pray.

Big blue beautiful eyes staring up at me, and she has on this adorable light blue and white ruffled petticoat style dress on. Long white socks, black T-strap shoes. I’m young, but I’d guess she’s dating 1870-1890’ish. Straight off the set of Little House on the Prairie.

She smiles at me.

Please, I don’t want to be here. My internal gaze saw past the beautiful blue eyes and adorable smile, and I believe I’m staring at Satan himself. Blink.

Pray harder.

I am frozen in place. I don’t know if I’m even breathing or still swinging. This has to be, by far the most terrifying moment in my entire life, well for being eight-years-old.

Red. All I can see is red staring back at me. He knows I can see him, and that is why he smiled at me. I thought for a split second that this creature was a direct descendant of the Devil himself, but this is a close second cousin. This is important to know this, trust me. Red, with very glossy skin that rippled huge, menacing muscles that covered every inch of him, including his eyes. The blonde apparition before me is barely 4 feet tall, and this creature is a soaring 15 feet with incredibly long, gangly, but steel-like limbs. Running from his very broad and muscular shoulders, down to his arms, his muscles bulging through his sinister skin, his limbs gradually becoming thinner until you see incredibly sharp claws. These are killing claws. Claws with history. It’s a weird set up, but for killing, I think it is ideal. Hands are replaced with four red long curved claws, easy to rip out a soul with. He never moves, but I know he slithers when he walks. Long, menacing thigh muscles disappear into hoofs or two large, very long curved claws. Red claws.

He is looking directly at me. I don’t want to look at him. His red eyes stare into my soul. I feel violated in ways; I can’t describe. Raped of words, along with my soul. Dear God, hear me, please. Save my soul. His ears are the most terrifying thing about him. Red, shiny, muscular, just like the rest of him, but they are excessively long and pointy. The curve at the top had an exaggerated point. I immediately understand that he sees and hears everything. He even hears you. This death creature is Satan’s ears and eyes.

He has a message for me. I hear you, and I’m watching you.

I don’t know how I removed myself from my swing or the playground. All I remember is praying. I hoped and prayed that Jesus himself was my mighty warrior watching over me and my soul.

This was as evil as evil gets.

So. What to do? Stay outside and jump off this swing into Satan’s cousin’s lap, and run off screaming for mommy? Exchange one evil for another. I am beyond terrified at both decisions or directions. I’m trying to be invisible in both worlds. Looking back, I’m not sure how I turned out as sane as I did, or maybe the jokes on me. I should have Swiss cheese for a stomach. The anxiety alone, getting in your bed every night, waiting for my bedtime story to come to life through the mattress and horrify me with wiggle fingers. Constantly fighting Satans’s army on a daily basis should have fucked me up ten ways to Sunday, then add in mommy dearest. You ain’t gonna win Satan, nor you mama. It’s just that simple.

By age eight, I knew I was so super fucked. I knew I had to use my wits to survive both these assholes.

Yeah, he’s still watching and listening to me, like it was yesterday. The lesson here: don’t judge a book by the cover. What if I had gone off and played with that eight-year-old girl like he wanted? Nothing good will every happen playing with a dead girl in the sandbox. He didn’t expect me to see beneath his cute braids, adorned with blue and white ribbons.

Soul collectors, like this asshole above, want all souls, and they especially love stealing incest pedophiles souls, like Grandad here. He survived these beasts, and if he wants to take his 0.1% back, okay. I thought for sure I could easily grant that tiny little bit of forgiveness. I don’t want to hold onto it, and yet, I know I’m not ready to let go of it either. My emotions are oxymoronic.

Grandad. While I was busy putting the silverware away, my brain is elsewhere. I’m putting my recent dead therapy session together and now this headless drama. Something else must have happened, or they must be onto me. I’m instantly guilty. I’m trying to be mindful of my thoughts, at the same time, my then-husband, was standing next to me, busily bent over inside the refrigerator, attempting to shove our spaghetti and meatballs inside our ever bulging fridge. My husband, while married, never liked to hear of any of my paranormal visits, nor my stories of the afterlife. Like, keep that shit to yourself, and that’s what I’ve done for my entire lonely life.

No one, not one member of my family growing up, wanted their own Charles Mason nightmare following them around with twisted, horrifying nonsense about Satan’s children wanting to kill them for their tacos. Ya’ll love that shit until it follows you home. To this day, most of my inner circle of family and friends, about 80%, want nothing to do with the paranormal. I don’t blame them; I’m just going to write a book about it instead. Namaste bitches.

I stopped putting the silverware away, and he had my undivided attention. Lets address showing up headless. There’s no blood. No gore. Presenting yourself headless in the afterlife is simply bowing your head so far forward that one appears headless, and it’s out of pure guilt and shame. Grandad’s soul is filled with so much remorse from what he did to me as a child that he can’t show his face to me.

The second I glanced at him, my chest expands as my body absorbs his pitifully sad and apologetic emotions. I soaked up every morsel of regret. My chest instantly reacts and is extremely heavy, so tight with sorrow and his soul’s deep, regrettable sadness. He made me feel the desperate, sheer sadness, not for himself, but for what I’m about to discover in the next following months. Like. What. The. Fuck. Does. That. Mean? My stomach felt like it plopped right out of my body.

That was his first message, and it instantly left me puzzled because I thought I was working on releasing that 0.1% back to him. Thankfully no words are needed when one shows up headless. Well shit. That glance had another message, as he told me, “He’s coming for you.” Now, say what? Who is coming for me? He? I’m sure I scrunched up my eyebrows, in complete horror and utter disbelief, as chills instantly covered my body. What the bloody hell does that mean and what am I supposed to do with that? Sometimes messages are sketchy, they’re like getting a new puzzle, and you know 30 pieces are missing from the box. It might take me seconds to months, to years, putting these puzzle pieces together, but I’ll eventually put those damn frustrating puzzles together. Bring your best game, Grandad. Of course, and my luck, Grandad’s vanished. He left behind a pit in my stomach.

Murmuring that he can take back his pit, I go back to putting the silverware away. I’m lost in another world. Why did his messages sound so dire and filled with so much regret? Such deep, deep regret. Too much regret to make me feel comfortable. It’s unnerving. Then he tells me about this man, that’s coming for me. I was fighting the idea that “he” was a bad man and meant harm to me, but I couldn’t imagine Grandad bringing such dire news. If evil were coming, he’d tell me another way, not this way. My sensible head and irrational heart are at conflict with one another.

I know instantly that this man won’t harm me, but at the same time, I’m frozen in place at the thought of a man coming for me. Who the fuck is he Granddad? That’s my paranormal drama for that day.

Maybe this man does mean to harm me. Fuck. Me. I’ve completely convinced myself that this man has now come to hunt my sorry ass down and kill me dead. Mother Teresa, I need miracles, like, right now …

I’m trying to convince my sensible side, but my irrational side wins out, and I willingly allow paranoia to stake a deep root, right into my soul. Mentally, I quickly inventory of the men that made my creep meter turn on. I couldn’t think of anyone, well, with the exception of my new neighbor. Instantly, I wanted to avoid this man like the plague. His girlfriend had been on my front porch, chatting about neighborhood stuff, when the next minute I see this man briskly walking up my driveway. The moment I see him, I’m pushed back with his dark and sincerely, black evil negativity and plain old cruelty. I was like, holy fuck and quickly looked at his girlfriend. I instantly saw how he beat the living shit out of her. I was inspecting her and checking for bruises. His cheery smile, was complete bullshit. With his fake smile, he extends his hand, and I’m like, please go the fuck away as I reached out and shook his hand. Eww. Such darkness inside this man. I matched his fake smile and smiled right back. This is the reason why I fear the living more than the dead.

With my charming neighbor shooting to the top of the list as my potential killer, not only was he, my sinister neighbor, he was a trainer at my gym. Fucking terrific.

The following week and a half was nothing but a scattered mess of emotions. Paranoia had definitely made itself at home, as I had avoided the gym altogether. I sat my family down and had the ghost talk with them. I recounted what had happened, and I carefully skipped over the headless part, but I stressed that someone was coming, coming to kill me dead. Well, frankly, my talk was not successful. All I got back was blank stares. I repeat myself, “things are coming, he’s coming for me, please set the fucking house alarm each and every time you leave.” The look on their faces told me I had said enough. The look of horror. They think I’ve gone and totally lost my ever-loving shit. Nice.

I had just started reorganizing the linen closet when Granddaddy decides to pop in and whispered, “he’s good.” Two quick words, and whoosh, he’s gone. Instantly, my soul is flooded with unconditional love and peace; it felt like it penetrated my entire being. While he was finishing his 2-word sentence, my attention was immediately pulled away, as I watched incredulously, these bubbles forming in my hallway.

Bubbles, as in someone’s writing me a text message, suspended in my hallway, bubbles. I stood there in complete and utter disbelief, but it’s right there in front of me. Now I ask you, how do I explain that? Wonder what my family would think if I ran in there and told them about the bubbles. There’d give each other a quick, nervous look as if to ask who’s calling the mental hospital first.

But, someone was obviously here, and I knew this spirit was female, sweet, spunky, hilariously funny, similarly obnoxious like myself, and I didn’t miss her underlying message. Those bubbles told me that she’s boss ass hip. She’s trendy af, and clearly loves smartphones. She’s definitely into electronics, and she let me know in short order, that she’s keeping up with the times. Apparently, she’s team Apple.

Ever so softly, she said, “his first wife died, and he has two young children.” Say what?

I’m trying to digest what she had just said, while at the same time thinking the universe has quite the sense of humor. I immediately thought of my old boss and the affair that I had really, really wanted, but in the end, I just couldn’t cheat. By the way, my former boss, Scott, his first wife had died, and he had two young children. Say it isn’t so.

Ms. Bubbles was still hanging out in my hallway, so after picking up my jaw, I turned to look at her again. She presents herself at age 30. That’s the afterlife’s perfect age. At 30, you’re old and wise enough to know not to do the stuff you did in your 20’s, but young enough to do it anyways. Its called maturity, at its ripest. Youthful, glistening, healthy glowing skin, women are fertile, and the bees are out. Let’s go make honey.

Ms. Bubbles has semi-long, dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, and is very sweet and beautiful. Big smile. Petite. Eyes, that smile. As I’m wondering who she belonged too and if she needed my help, she was gone. Bubbly and beautiful, spirits like her have come to me routinely asking for help, and unlike today, she came bearing challenging messages. I’ll get messages and have absolutely no idea who the fuck they belong too. Who was she talking about? Who is this dead woman? Who is this man? What a very odd day today. Two dead visits, and two strange messages. Put it in the stack with the others and move on. I’ve learned not to question them, just write them down, and like a good, challenging crossword puzzle, I’ll find their owner sooner or later, I always do.

I must find this man, who evidently is coming for me, but I haven’t any messages to give him. Then, I must find the owner of Ms. Bubbles … Perplexing dilemmas I find myself in. What’s new? Why would anyone be coming for me, and most importantly, why did my guardians think it necessary to warn me? They let me go, almost white jacket crazy thinking there was a killer on the loose.

Obviously, it’s someone that will enter my life and be the dill to my pickle. Chills.

Three years after unloading my dishwasher with Grandad, I found myself going to my friend’s home for dinner. Upon entering, I learned evil had been on the guest list. Their home immediately feels super crowded. The air is very heavy and draining on my chest. What to do? Leave? Yes. I was terrified and simply not in the mood. I’ll pick up tacos on the way home. My stomach dropped when I saw it slither in between the wall and the ceiling, leaving wispy black essence of itself, like a black feathery shadow.

Get me out of here, now. This slithering bastard is a dead human. He especially enjoyed presenting himself as a snake to me. He wanted to appear like he came straight from Satan’s belly, but I can see through to his human ego, so I knew he wasn’t part of Satan’s gang. He was pretty prideful in his ability to slough off his skin, in hopes of creating “mini snakes.” His army of snakes. Well, that was his attempt, and he was failing, yet he terrified me all the same. He was powerful. He wasn’t making babies yet, but with time, he will have dozens. I’m understanding why my impromptu, last-minute need to splatter myself with holy water and dabble black salts like it was perfume. Now I understood why I did that. I’m slow, but I’ve learned through the years not to question my guides. When they tell me to do something, no matter how annoying or inconvenient, I just do it.

I’m seated at my friend’s dining room table, and immediately my eyes are transfixed on the adjacent dark and empty bathroom. Without moving my head, I ask them if they ever feel like someone is watching them.

I can feel them both watching me.

I don’t have to turn my head to know what look they’re giving me. Long, dramatic silence. Once my friend found his voice, he said, “you’re looking at it.” Without moving my gaze from the darkened bathroom, I lift my hand and point into the kitchen and tell them that they hear him. My friend actually gasped. I continue and tell them that this dead man, especially enjoys frightening them with all his banging and knocking. What I don’t tell them is, this slithering bastard is transfixed on my friend’s girlfriend. No need to alarm the frightened couple any further. Again, very prideful, this dead human shows me how he sits on the bathroom cupboards, high above and watches her below. He just STARES at this poor girl. Showering, going to the bathroom or brushing her teeth, he sees it all. He’s a sick little fuck. Definitely human spirit. Meaning he was once alive but is now dead. He wants to appear like Satan’s army, but I fear him just as if he was.

I was going through some medical issues, and I just didn’t want to deal with this bullshit. Just as I was about to politely excuse myself, Grandad comes up on my left side and squeezes my shoulder. This was his trademark shoulder-shake when he was alive. Instant acknowledgment. I’m here, and I will help you. This dead human, was particularly nasty, throwing objects, opening doors, moving slippers, you know, the whole paranormal shit.

That night, with Grandad’s help, we eradicated that slithering beast and sent him on his way. That was quite the night and a very sweet moment. In that shoulder-shake, I learned that he will be my main, permanent guardian. I’ve never had one permanent guardian before, this is new, and it’s like having your seatbelt permanently on, but you didn’t put it on, nor feel it. Security on a whole new level. There is such peace and comfort, knowing he has my back, my soul, and my very essence. Talk about coming full circle. Don’t get me wrong; it was a messy and tough road getting there and lots of dirty dishes.

With Grandad beside me, I still have multiple guardians, but they come in behind him, or to the side of him. Guardians come and go. They, too, have their own missions. Checkmark. Move onto next calling. Multiple missions, and multiple souls to visit, and tons of guidance to give. My upbringing has been a series of hundreds of ghostly, daycare loving, babysitters. I know I will die with him right beside me. As I take my last breath and leave this world, I know he will still be here holding my hand while he walks me through into the other side of life.

We’re all human. We all have sins. We all make mistakes. I’m just going to advise from what I’ve seen from the other side. Too much drama and dirty laundry. I’m not entirely sure why Granddad showed up headless, but I felt dread. If you don’t want to end up like Granddad, learn from your mistakes here on this side of life. It’s so much easier righting our wrongs while living. Pride and ego need to be left in life’s rearview mirror, continue moving forward, and not stuck living in the past. Let go of the ego and just fucking apologize, and really mean it. I’d not advise going to God with empty, meaningless sentiments.

I struggled for decades as a human being, to fully forgive Grandad until that dinner party. That night I freely gave him back that 0.01%. This weight is no longer mine to carry, and I freely give him back all the unmentionable pain, heartbreaking betrayal, and such incredible torment that he made me endure.

Life comes full circle, even through the veil. My heart isn’t heavy, I’m loved thoroughly and unconditionally, and have a bodyguard like I’m the next President. Full circle.