Originally posted by NorEaster
So now I'm back to wondering if she's okay and hanging around people who love her, or if something else has been taking advantage of my wishful
thinking. They say that these folks feed off our emotional reactions, and she (if it's her) has benefitted from lots of positive emotional response
from me over the last year and a half. If its not her, then I wish there was a way to verify it. I don't trust professional mediums or psychics.
The only way an evil entity can benefit from a positive emotional response is to become less evil.
An entity hanging around your house will quickly let you know if it's evil. If it hasn't, and is not your friend, it's likely to be merely confused
and lonely. Telling it you welcome it to share your home, as long as it does no harm, and feeling friendly toward it helps. Eventually it will finish
coming to terms with its situation and will move on.
My house is/was haunted by something that I feel is the mischievous spirit of a boy.
Something came up about door lintels the other day and my son couldn't remember the word. So he said, "One of those things that keeps falling on
Mum's head," and we all knew what he meant.
Three times since I've been here, the door lintels have fallen down, each time hitting me hard on the head. One lintel once, and another on two other
occasions. Naturally, I made sure they were screwed securely into sound wood, but it didn't help. On the third occasion a friend had just left,
telling me he hoped I'd go to sleep quickly, and I walked towards the kitchen. I would have been unconscious before he made it to the car. I woke
hours later in the kitchen doorway, feeling beaten up, and thought someone must have broken in and attacked me. Then I realised the lintel was on top
of me, and figured out what had happened. I felt it was our ghost-boy, but still felt no malice around, only a slightly nasty sense of humour.
Another time I was sitting in the 6' x 12' bathroom, when a ceiling cornice from the opposite corner "fell" across the room and hit me on the
head. A few years later, after the weird stuff had been stopped for a while, I told my daughter the ghost had gone. Later that afternoon I was
leaning forwards with my back to a high cupboard, but a couple of feet from it, when a full litre paint tin, which had been pushed well back, "fell"
forward and hit me in the middle of the back. The top of the cupboard was, and still is, perfectly level. I haven't said the ghost has gone again. I
figure he doesn't like hearing that.
Another "ghost story" if you like to call it that, happened in Malvern in 1975.
I was on my own with a baby, and working as a live-in housekeeper for a wealthy elderly couple so I could have her with me. - The Rosses. - She had
been a Miss Hoadley, heir to the Hoadleys Chocolates fortune. I found it amusing that she kept working to convince me of my huge inferiority compared
to her when her great grandfather had been partners with my great grand-father, and had done my unworldly, aspergerish ancestor out of the money hed
put into the lolly business. But as they say, them's the breaks.
Mrs Ross had been born wealthy, in that same house, and had never lived anywhere else, never sampled another lifestyle or even travelled. She confided
in me she was terrified of "The Commies" taking her house, sure she'd die without it. Compared to her, with her huge fears and small minded
outlook, I felt I was the wealthy one. I had little left to fear and nothing to lose - well, except for my darling wee girl. Funnily enough, I was
doing a bit of work on the side as a dumb blonde mata hari in the only Commie group in Melbourne, sister organisation to the Weathermen, but they were
not planning on taking anyones houses. By the way, the leader, Stephan, was not communist, despite the other members believing he was. He were
Israeli, with funding from Israel, but pretended to be Russian with Soviet funding while teaching bomb-making, demolition, how to incite violence, and
bribed trade-union reps to agitate for insane wage rises. Luckily he never discovered his "girlfriend" was not a brainless floozie.
Anyway, back to the Rosses. Mr Ross was 73, and slowly dying of cancer, emphysemia and diabetes. He'd been a doctor, so understood the prognosis and
knew it was going to be a horrible death. My only contact was meant to be taking him his meals, - (Mrs Ross was too busy playing bridge or
socialising,) - but he proved to be such a darling man I used to spend my afternoons off carrying him around their beautiful garden. He was very light
and weak by then and I'm pretty strong. After three months his doctor said he didn't have more than a week to live.
A few days into that week, when he was looking particularly bad, Mrs Ross told me on no account was I to interupt her afternoon's bridge for
Anything. I took Mr Ross up his carefully prepared diabetic lunch, and he said,
"Please dear, not that. I'd like some ice-cream."
Quickly calculating portions, I told him he could have 3 scoops of his diabetic icecream.
"No, not that," he said. "Does my wife still get that creamy strawberry with choc-chips?"
"Yes," I said, "but you could only have one scoop of that."
"Please," he said, "this time I want a soupbowl, filled like this," gesturing a mountain on top of an imaginary bowl.
I gently held his hands, and looked into his eyes, and saw he knew that, in his state, this would kill him. And I knew I mustn't cry, he had enough
to deal with already. (I'm crying a bit remembering.) I didn't want him to die, but I felt, if I was in his position - gasping for breath and in
worsening pain, knowing the pain would get steadily worked until the slow suffocation caused a fatal heart attack, what right would anyone have to
deny me this last mercy?
So I piled the icecrean into a soup bowl and sat with him while he ate it, and then held him while he slipped into unconsciousness. He'd asked me to
not notify anyone until his wife's game had finished, at 6 pm, and by that time the soup-bowl was washed and put away.
She was not particularly upset, until the next day when she realised the old grandfather clock had started up again and she reached to turn on the
parlour light and it turned on before she touched it. Then she went to pull up the blind, and the blind slid up before she reached it. She was
terribly shaken, and terrified of living in a haunted house. So she went to stay with her daughter in Queensland and told me to let her know when the
"odd things" stopped happening.
For the following week I enjoyed having Mr Ross turn lights on and off, and pull blinds up in the morning, and fill the huge house with happy vibes.
Then the "odd things" stopped, but I was having a ball having this house to myself. Mrs Ross's friends mistook me for her daughter, and were
competing to get me married off to their sons. And I had some dressmaking talent and a crate of fabulous garment lengths bought in a closing-down
auction, so mornings I was "creating," and evenings I was socialising. But I always let the sons know who I really was, and they were good sports,
keeping my secret.
After another 3 months I let Mrs Ross know the house was "safe" again, and her friends were horrified at her welcome-back party to discover they'd
been wining and dining "the maid". However that didn't stop them each trying to recruit me behind her back. But I'd had enough of maiding. I had
dreams of an art and craft shop / music lounge to fulfil.