Chapter 4
Angelic Clouds & Hollywood
Flipping off the light switch after checking myself in the mirror, I turn to find Doris patiently waiting for me, again.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, hands folded in her lap, Doris has been trying her best to convince me that she’s been murdered.
No, my sweet friend, you were not murdered, I saw how you died, and here we go, again.
I first met Doris a few years ago while stepping into the shower, and this is what being psychic gets you.
Naked or clothed, my guardians know who to let through and who not too. I don’t mind innocent lost souls into my home and shower, like my dead friend Doris here. You’d think I’d be embarrassed having this smiling stranger with wispy white-gray hair and rosy cheeks watch me as I clean my backside, but this is nothing. At least she was dressed.
Covered under a sudsy blanket, I tell her that I love her shirt. She has on a checkered blue and mint green short sleeve shirt, and the blue in it made her blue eyes sparkle. She tells me through her beautiful eyes that she’s been murdered.
Doris first presented herself to me while standing in front of a small white picket fence bordering a lake. It’s a beautiful green lush meadow with brilliant blue skies above. It was a spectacular setting, and I’m going to say this is somewhere in Ohio. Definitely Midwest region. I can see, sense, feel and hear the dead in many, many forms, and Doris decided to show herself like a Polaroid photo, but unlike still photos, she’s moving inside the photo. My very own afterlife matinee.
Doris is sincerely one of the kindest spirits I’ve come across. In life, as in death, she is very friendly. Since meeting her that day in my shower, she randomly shows up to tell me that she’s been murdered. I’m on Season 3, Episode 11, trying my best to convince her otherwise. She refuses to hear me. I mean, she fully hears me, but she stubbornly refuses to accept the way she died. I’m sure I look completely normal, having a full-on conversation with my shower wall, but Doris’ story is not unusual. Some spirits simply refuse to accept their death and, importantly, the manner of death.
Doris died later in life, between 80-85 years old, and was still in pretty good health. She reminds me that it wasn’t her time, but unfortunately, she perished when her then-lover, over-corrected, and rolled the vehicle several times before settling upside down in a canal. Sadly, both died in the crash.
For a while, I thought she meant because she was a passenger, that she felt she had been “murdered.” I’m not entirely sure why she’s so insistent that she’s been murdered, as I’m confident that death was due to a combination of drowning and injuries sustained in the rollover. Some spirits remain confused and worse; some don’t even know they’re dead.
These undead spirits are the trickiest and my most challenging. They come barreling into my life, straight into my chest with such force, that they will literally push me back. While my entire being is swallowed up by their intense confusion and panic, I immediately have to throw up. Now, that’s some crazy fucking energy. I get car/motion sickness, elevation sickness, but at the top of my list, and the worst, is the undead sickness.
One minute I’m vacuuming and the next, I’m sprinting to the toilet; I ask you, just how am I supposed to work or live in this environment of mine? Talk about annoying co-workers, and this glorious moment is just another minute in my everyday life living with the dead.
Doris suffered from dementia prior to death and remains in a deep state of confusion. I’ve run across my fair share of dead folks suffering from what appears to be dementia, and quite frankly, I’m bothered by this fact. I believe Doris is either still suffering from that bump on her head that killed her, or she’s suffering from a severe case of afterlife dementia. Confused or not, I absolutely love Doris.
Death is always close behind me and helping lost souls is what I was born to do. I’d say I’m more of a ghost counselor, but I fear I’m failing to help my very confused friend. Doris, to this day, remains a work in progress. I can’t escape this gift, no matter where I go or what I do, death will always surround me. I’ll continue to try and help Doris, but I’m not holding my breath. She’s definitely a stubborn, but very sweet and gentle spirit.
Unlike Doris, the saddest spirit I ran across lives in Maysville, Kentucky. This is a very historic town, and whereas I’m not a fan of dead children, this young spirit has left a lasting impression on me. I was staying with my brother at this quaint and historic hotel on the banks of the Ohio River. Greeting us as we drove into the parking lot, sits a high cement wall with a beautiful mural depicting slaves crossing the Ohio River to freedom. Paddleboat’s complete this beautiful mural, but there is nothing beautiful with what had happened here. I believe this is as close to Hell on earth as you will find. The intense sense of dread and sorrow consumes me, and I immediately want to drive away. The land, especially the water, is fucked-up haunted, haunted beyond this poor little lost soul standing before me. Slaughters and killings of every brutality and of every race, age, sex, and creed. The ground is soaked with centuries of death, yet is alive and more human than you or I. Heartbeat of the dead.
I’m no longer in the car with my brother looking at this tragic historical mural, but instead, I was staring into the eyes of sad and disheveled 8-year old African American boy. He dates from the mid-1800s, and even though he’s smiling through his suffering, I can tell something is off. This poor boy has on the saddest pair of denim overalls that are 2-sizes too small, threadbare, and barely covering his frail body. Such a pitiful sight, as my body willingly soaks up his anguish and fright. It’s hard holding back my tears as he takes me through his short and tragic life. He’s still trying to cross the river to freedom and to his family, going through the throws of drowning and dying, again and again. He stands there smiling through his pain with one broken shoulder strap dangling across his bare chest, and the only material covering his frail legs, are the frayed remnants of what used to be coveralls. He is soaking wet and covered in mud and shoeless. From his skeleton-like appearance, he never had consistent meals.
This is my lost boy. He lived a thousand lives in his short and miserable 8-years. Yet, through his suffering eyes, he continues to smile at me and my dog, Benny. It was love at first sight for all of us. Still smiling at me, he unknowingly takes me through his death. He died the most miserable way; he drowned. Instantly, my chest absorbs the horror and fear he felt, along with the sheer pain and agony of drowning. I fucking hate drowning. This poor little one tried swimming across the Ohio river, but good golly, its enormous, and the current was so rough. He is so tiny and light, the river instantly swallowed him up. He never had a chance. I’m amazed that anyone survived crossing it, and like many thousands before him, this little boy lost his life in that river. Alone and cold, he drowned. His body is in that river, washed away, never to be seen again.
He continues to this day, trying to swim across the Ohio River, trying to reach his family. He visits from time to time, and I try my best to help him, as I gently explain that his family is on the other side, but yet, he’s so determined to cross this river. He refuses to accept that he died. He gives me strength when facing my own adversities, yet nothing I’ve ever gone through would compare to what he’s had to endure. This little one has more grit, strength, and determination enough for eleven men, but he just doesn’t understand that he’s died. He’s been dead well over a hundred and fifty years and is such a sad scene to watch. Yet, I can safely say that he is one quintessential tough cookie and definitely has a fighting spirit, even in death.
My murdered and lost friends need acknowledgment for their suffering, and I get that. However, I’m struggling to convince them that they died. Talk about spirit puzzles; I have my own life puzzle I’m struggling to put together, and apparently, I have a murder to solve. Doris will never leave me, nor my sweet little lost boy until I do.
In 1994, I almost saw my own death on Northgate Mile in Idaho Falls, Idaho. I had been running a million errands on that ordinary day and was eager to get home. My son had just turned 1-years old, and I wanted to relieve his father of his parental duties. He was a spectacular father, but I was missing my baby boy.
One moment, I’m driving home, and the next left me speechless well over a decade. I couldn’t talk about this, what had happened to me on that fateful day. I couldn’t form words, without sounding completely white-jacket crazy. I know how this is going to sound, it was too much for the human brain to comprehend, and frankly, it was just too much for me.
Supernatural occurrences is my life, but not this. This was entirely different.
This was impressively scary on a level that has left me somewhat scarred. This is hard for me to share with you, but I know this miracle is a main piece of my puzzle and what I’m supposed to be doing.
I’m in my black Ford, admittedly going over the speed limit at about 50mph. I had just passed the town’s stockyard, as the smell of cow manure quickly filled my car, I glanced down to push the button to lower my window, when this small Toyota truck suddenly pulls out in front of me.
There was simply no time to scream, brake, or think. Blink.
Time actually stopped.
In exaggerated slow motion, I watched, incredulously, this giant fluffy clouded hand come down from out of nowhere and wedged itself between the Toyota and me.
Holy Fuck.
Within that blink, I drove right through this enormous clouded hand, along with the Toyota. The cloud looked exactly like a giant Mickey Mouse hand. I know how incredibly strange this sounds, but that’s what I saw. Angelic Mickey was sent to save my ass.
I don’t remember leaving the crash that never happened, but I remember sitting in my car, how I managed to pull over, I’m not sure. I sat there dazed and confused, for hours. I couldn’t comprehend THAT, what just happened to me - I just drove through that Toyota truck. How? I should be dead, as well as the driver of the Toyota. I would have T-boned him, dead. Over and over, I sat there going over what I saw. I’m in shock. I’m beyond terrified, I can’t breathe and I couldn’t accept that I escaped death, once again. I should be dead, dead on impact. My mind simply couldn’t grasp what had happened. Like a really bad dream, but you’re fully awake. Yeah, I know how crazy I sound, like I’m missing half my crayons, but I’m telling you the truth. As I said, this was hard to write, and I know it sounds bizarre and made-up, but its what happened.
I could barely comprehend it myself, let alone talk about it. Now here I am decades later, telling a bunch of strangers about the day I almost died, again. I’m not here to convince you the day angelic Mickey saved my life, but I know this miracle was meant to shake me the fuck awake. Eyes completely wide open, they got my attention and now I know why it saved my life. This day, is key to my puzzle, my intended path. My guardians, this time spared my life on such a grand scale; it makes me wonder, what the fuck am I supposed to be doing because, apparently, I’m a tad slow. Either that or I’m a cat with endless lives. Meow.
This took place before the internet, and folks used to post messages in the newspaper. After a few months of replaying that day, I contemplated posting such an ad to the driver of the Toyota truck. He had to have seen this enormous clouded hand, but then I thought about it. He didn’t see me, which means he wouldn’t have seen this angelic intervention that saved both our lives. Maybe the universe will intervene, and he reads this story about the day he almost died.
It’s not your time; you have something to accomplish. It’s not your time; you have something to accomplish.
Ah, yes, your back, again. This message was seriously getting old, but this time, it was screaming at me. I felt it rush through me, and sparing my life like this, was impressive, startling, and it got my attention. Whatever I’m supposed to be doing or not doing, I know whatever it is, it’s my calling, but first, I just need to figure what the hell it is.
Puzzles and angelic clouds aside, death continues to follow me, and I’ve met some of the nicest, grumpiest, and coolest spirits.
One of the coolest spirit I bumped into is Johnny. While visiting Boise State University, I stumbled upon Johnny under a bridge, sitting sideways on a low hanging tree branch, swinging one leg back and forth. He had a toothpick hanging from one side of his mouth, and I laughed when I saw it. I told him he looks just like John Travolta in the movie Grease. He quickly jumps off his perch and quickly fills me in on how he died. He said he had been clotheslined, as in murdered. Good gracious, here we go again. He dates around the mid-1950s, with slick-back black hair, rolled cuffs on his denim jeans, black shoes, and a pack of cigarettes that was neatly folded in the cuff of his white t-shirt. Honestly, to me, he looks very much alive as I can’t see any trauma that caused his death, but he’s definitely dead. Poor Johnny, he’s been hanging around here for quite a while.
Johnny is very chatting and doesn’t have a shy bone in his dead body, as he quickly tells me that he thinks I’m a cool mom. Shaking my head, I chuckled at his compliment and told him that was sweet to say. He knew my son had gone to Boise State, just like he had, well, before he had been clotheslined.
When my visit in Boise ended, we parted ways, or so I thought. Driving home, I saw that Johnny was on the top of my car, and when I told him I could see him up there, he quickly found his way to the backseat, smiling this sheepish grin at me. Spirit Uber at your service.
For some reason, Johnny felt the need to protect me and is a very kind and funny spirit. I did have to scold him after he pretended to clothesline my ass in my own garage. He stood there laughing, he wasn’t being mean or trying to kill me, he just thought he was being funny. Not funny Johnny, as I told him that was incredibly rude and shame on him, whereas, he hung his head and disappeared. Just because the physical body dies, doesn’t mean you lose who you are, your personality is still there. You are what’s inside your soul, and your soul never dies. Johnny is super friendly, but can be a bit obnoxious at times and always gives me this silly grin with his head titled to one side. He’s adorably obnoxious.
Johnny stayed with me for a few years, and one random day he came to say goodbye. It took that long to convince him that it was okay to leave me and walk over to the other side. It’s not like he stayed stayed with me; He would randomly check in on me and always with the same sheepish grin. Here’s Johnny, sitting above me when he came to say goodbye. For some reason, just like the car ride home, he always hovered over me, overseeing and protecting me. I was truly sad to see him go, but spirits like Johnny need to move on, and importantly, he needs to be at rest. I hope I helped him as much as he helped me. I was in the process of leaving my marriage, as it was a very emotional time for me, and he gave me such comfort, and I didn’t fully appreciate it until he was gone. I cried uncontrollably while writing about Johnny. It’s easy to get to know them, fall in love with their silliness, then when its time to let them go, it feels like a death to me. Once they move on, they don’t come back, and for that, I know I did my job. Even through my tears, I know he’s at peace, but I really miss Johnny. RIP sweet Johnny, until we meet again.
I’m not sure which guardian helped me escape a near kidnapping, but looking back, I sure hope it was Johnny. I had just finished the 6th grade and, once again, was shipped back to my birth mothers home in North Carolina. Knowing about my black holes, I was probably acting out because I had just been molested, I think, for the first time. For punishment for acting out, I was sent once again to live with my cruel and evil birth mother. The cruelty and abuse knew no limits in my world.
I spent one incredibly hard and brutal year with her, and by the time the 7th grade was over, I was ready to move back to Granny, but instead, I went to live with my southern grandparents, Grandma Crews and Poppy in Jacksonville, Florida. Growing up, I spent all my holidays and summers in Florida, but always attended school in Washington State. Poppy had a nickname for me, and funny thing, the family dog and I shared the same name. Missy. My southern grandparents were Southern Baptist, and I went to church religiously 3-4 times a week. Their house had a calmness and a routine that I found to be heaven, but extremely strict. The school tried placing me in the 10th grade, and I’m like, look at me. I’m barely 80 lbs, and I want to stay in the shadows, not stand out like a scrawny scholarly nerd. I was stubbornly adamant, but in the end, I consented to go up one grade and entered into the 9th-grade.
During any and all school breaks and summers, I stayed with my Aunt Shari as much as possible. My “aunt” really wasn’t a blood relative, but a long-standing generational friendship dating back to our great-grandmothers. Blood relative or not, I absolutely adore this woman. For me, she simply walks on water, and was and remains to this day, stunningly, drop-dead gorgeous. She has the most adorable deep southern twang and beautiful long dark jet-black hair and always had big smiles for me.
She would pick me up for school and had a system in the morning, which I thought was hilarious. She drove a shiny black T-top TransAm and always with the top down, and adorned on her head, sits these massive round plastic curlers. She’d have about eight scattered on her head, and we’d roar off with the music blaring. We spoke the same kind of language when it came to music and the beach.
One day after dropping me off, Aunt Shari told me we’re going to the beach this weekend, and we’re staying the week. I had my bags packed within minutes of hearing this. A few days later, I hear the familiar roar of the TransAm and run out to be greeted by Aunt Shari and my younger cousin, Celeste. My aunt didn’t have any children, and we were constantly being spoiled. It was going to be just us three-girls enjoying a week at the beach. Celeste’s father, my uncle, would be up later in the week.
Playing at the beach was my church, my sanctuary. I spent my days on the beach practicing endless backflips, building sandcastles, and digging for sharks’ teeth. This was my heaven on earth.
Within a few days, Celeste and I had gotten into our familiar routine going to the skatepark that was right around the corner. The park was safe as it was nestled inside my aunt’s gated community. When we weren’t at the beach, you’d find us at the skatepark.
We had decided to go skateboarding again. About an hour later, we were hungry. I’ll never forget that Celeste and I were in the mood for Oreos. We took the familiar route back home and stepped into the backyard, and there stands a man.
I’m instantly alarmed and confused. Half the confusion I blame on puberty, as this man was hands down, handsome. He was about 18-20 years old with shaggy above shoulder-length dirty blonde hair. He reminded me of a California surfer boy. He was definitely on the cute side, yet I couldn’t figure out why he made my eyebrows go up. When they do this, I’m instantly on guard. My brows act as my internal radar. I was hormonally excited, but my eyebrows were definitely not having it.
My aunt’s backyard was dense with vegetation and more like a small forest, with two sandy paths leading to her back fence. Behind the fence sits a slew of compressors, and all I know, they made a ton of racket and stretched out past her fence and into the road, successfully blocking it. With the road blocked, you had two options to leave. Take the right path, and you go inside the community, straight into the skatepark. Take the left side, and it’ll lead you out of the community.
This blonde-haired stranger was standing on the left-hand side like he had come from the outside when our paths crossed.
There isn’t a shy bone in my body, and the moment I see him, I yell-tell that this is private property, and he needs to leave. I was very bold as a child. I was two years older than Celeste and immediately felt compelled to protect her. Before he could reply, I immediately asked him why he found himself in my Aunts backyard. Was he lost? Where do you need to go? Instead of answering my questions, he stands there staring at me. It was a bit strange and awkward. Slowly he answers, but only after pulling the answers out of him. In the end, he told me he needed to go outside. Okay. Waving my hand, I point behind him and tell him to turn around and go down the same path he’s standing on. We watched him slowly turn around and walk down the path; Celeste and I are once again thinking about Oreos and go inside the house.
We filled up on Oreos and had lunch. After lunch, we headed off to the beach to look for sharks’ teeth. I’ll never forget this day. I was obsessed with sharks’ teeth, and we’d dig these enormous wading pools, and at times, they’d just float in. Other times you had to dig for them. We had spent a couple of hours digging for teeth when my Aunts neighbor, John, came running by. He ran every day and had stopped to tell us about the birth of his twin boys that his wife had just delivered. I remember asking him to tell us when they got home from the hospital so we can come over and see them. We said our goodbyes and decided to head off to the skatepark, this time armed with skates. We stopped for the skates, and I remember grabbing more cookies, even after Aunt Shari said dinner would be soon. I’m still a raging cookie whore to this day, but l lost my love for Oreos after this fateful day.
Munching down on my pilfered cookies, we once again start down the familiar sandy path, when I look up to see the man I jokingly nicknamed Hollywood, standing on the right side path. Even though I watched him walk away earlier, he was back and now standing on the opposite side. Hmm. That’s when something shifted. My internal alarm was shooting fireworks off, and nothing was making sense. I was more confused than ever. I asked Hollywood, with definite firmness in my voice, why he was still in our backyard. We had been gone a significant amount of time, a really long time in fact, and things were not adding up.
Staring back at me is this charming, extremely good looking California surfer, but the feeling I was getting back from Hollywood, was nothing close to charming. I was trying my best to convince myself because he was so handsome, is the reason I was so flustered and confused.
After promptly telling him to leave again, Celeste and I continued down the path, and I get closer to him, shaking a sassy finger, I point in the direction for him to leave. When I was attempting to pass him, the path has large familiar hole in it and I remember wanting to act lady-like. Not jumping or leaping over it like I’ve done a million times, instead, I grabbed onto this tiny tree, using it like I needed it for support. I’ll never forget that I really wanted to impress Hollywood of my mature and lady-like moves.
Blink.
The next moment, I understood why I was so confused.
Still holding onto the tiny sapling, Hollywood rushed to my side, and in an instant, I was staring into the eyes of my very own Ted Bundy. In that blink, Hollywood quickly bear-hugged me, pinning both my arms to my side. My nose was forcibly jammed into his face, and all I could smell was the heavy stench of alcohol and the feel of his hot breath. His breath was soaked with alcohol. I couldn’t think; I couldn’t speak, and I’m frozen in place. After a few stunned seconds, I tried squirming out of his bear hug, but I can’t move, and I can’t pull my face away from his. Then he moved. He took a few steps and dragged me along with him.
I hear screaming, but it wasn’t me this time. Celeste. After being dragged, I react the only way I know. I believe my scream was heard in nearby counties, and when I hear Celeste still screaming, I think it only made me scream that much louder. That moment felt like an out of body experience. Every cell in my body was screaming and shaking uncontrollably. I think I lost time. I was there, but I wasn’t. This is a very weird place to be. One minute, I’m so incredibly scared, that I can’t find my voice, I can’t move, I’m literally frozen, physically and mentally. Then the next, I’m yelling and screaming at volumes that broke records.
Large bellows rang out from behind us, and while still tightly wrapped inside his arms, we turn and follow the yelling, looking up to see my uncle and his friend pointing down at us and screaming. My uncle and friend were standing on the 2nd-floor deck. HEY YOU! While I haven’t stopped screaming, we watch my uncle and his friend disappear into the house, filling the house with loud commotion and yelling. My uncle and his friend were huge bodybuilders, and I would have been intimated to see these hulking figures come running after me.
With my arms still pinned to my side, incredulously, he continues to drag me down the sandy path and suddenly lets me go.
Before letting me go, he whispered in my ear, something that haunted me for decades. “All I wanted to do was see your little.” That was it. That’s all he said. With that, he let me go and quickly ran down the right side path, as I numbly watched him uncover a motorcycle that he had hidden inside the dense foliage. I still can’t move, but I remember my uncle and his friend rushing past me, pushing me out of the way. I heard Hollywood start up the motorcycle, and when he pulled back on the throttle, the entire bike fell sideways, subsequently pinning his leg against the sand and the now hot running muffler. Thank goodness for sandy paths. The moment the motorcycle slammed down on him, he almost matched my maddening loud shrills. When this man dies, I can only hope he feels this pain and burns in Hell until all eternity ends, but I know someone with higher authority will take of this Hollywood asshole.
The next thing I remember, I’m in front of the house, and I’m trying to speak to the police. Words just won’t come out. John, the neighbor, was there talking to my aunt and uncle. All I really remember is watching my kneecaps, moving up and down, so rapid, and with such fluidity, I was simply mesmerized by them. They were shaking so fiercely, moving at least 2 inches above and below where they normally sit. I remember not being able to look at anyone nor the police as they gently questioned me, as I couldn’t take my eyes off my jackhammering kneecaps. That’s all I remember of that horrible day.
It was assumed Hollywood had stalked me, they weren’t sure, but they thought he had watched me enough to know my limited movements. This handsome fellow had plans for me, sinister plans. I overheard hushed whispers coming from my family about what his true intentions were. I know, yet again, I missed death, once again. Hollywoods exterior hid the true evil that lurked inside this man, but my brows knew. This is why I say I fear the living more than the dead - fucking humans.
I lost my taste for Oreos after that day. Asshole.
I think I’m on the verge of solving a lifetime of cryptic supernatural messages, witnessing incredible, angelic life-saving miracles, one after the other, but my thoughts naturally drift back to you. You, the boy with the caterpillar brows, haunt me.
It’s been 32 years since I was paranormally hogtied and dragged down to your dorm room; 28 years since that chance encounter under that starry filled night, and 25 years since I started writing to the stranger I never knew. The only thing I know, 32 silent years later, is that I am hopelessly in love with this bushy browed mystery man.
You refused to speak to me during college, but yet, your silence spoke a thousand words. Holding my breath, I clutched my phone, closed my eyes, and said a silent prayer … then, nervously pressed the send key.
This letter, this time, will hopefully find it’s way to my souls other half, the stranger I never knew.
