I know I always tell people that when I write, I seem to wake up and/or attract other-worldly presences. They walk up and down the hall, knock on the walls, make sounds like they are shifting furniture around (even though nothing is ever out of place), and occasionally make such a ruckus that it sounds like something has fallen off a shelf and crashed to the floor. While I can't exactly ignore this stuff -more like I just don't look- I have gotten to the point where I don't give it any attention other than acknowledging that I just heard a noise, and now it's time to go back to writing.
Until the past few weeks.
I mentioned somewhere, I'm not sure if it was here or on my Facebook posts, that the other week, both my daughter and I heard the sounds of a little kid running up and down the hall. Without there being a little kid actually doing so. Well, that was maybe the kick-off moment. Maybe we shouldn't have given him any attention? Then again, maybe this isn't him.
Lately, the noises in my house are getting louder, more frequent, and uncomfortably closer. Most of the time, my writing visitors are down the hall. Or maybe around the corner. Just someplace at a distance where I would probably need to get up and take a loo, if I wanted to ascertain whether a book or a vase has actually fallen off a shelf. Not so much, these days. Tuesday and yesterday while I was writing, I was treated to banging and knocking and other loud, intrusive noises that were at most about six feet away from where I sit. All I would have had to do was turn my head to see what was happening. If there was anything to see.
Luckily, my name is not Michael Penfield, nor do I have his ability to see the dead at the drop of a hat. Or anything else that might be falling to the ground. I have looked, once or twice, to see who's making a racket so close to my chair (always to my left and maybe just a little bit behind me, so that I really would need to turn my head to check things out) and of course, I don't see anything. But sometimes I feel it.
I've probably mentioned before that my younger daughter once told a psychic about our house and asked what was going on in it. At that time, our dog would sometimes bark at the front door when no one was there. (Great stuff when Jim was out of town.) Our doorbell would ring, but it was always kind of a strange ring: a little weak, as if whoever or whatever was pushing the button couldn't quite push it hard enough to achieve the full effect. Lights would sometimes be on when they shouldn't have been. Things like that. The psychic told our daughter that our house wasn't haunted, exactly, but it was sort of a way-station. A place where spirits passed through. Why that would be, I don't know, but my older daughter confirmed that by remarking that there were always strange (and dead) people walking down our main hall.
I believe it. Our main hall attracts some weird feelings at either, and sometimes both, end/s, whether at the laundry/utility room at one end, or at the opposite side of the house where the bedrooms are. There are times that I hate walking down my hall because it doesn't feel quite right.
But I also agree that we don't seem to have a permanent resident from the other world, so I guess that's a plus. Maybe. It's nice not to worry about always having something here. On the other hand, we never know what will turn up if someone decides to pass through. If there are portals in certain places, I'd guess that maybe our house is a connection between them.
So as I finish this blog piece and get ready to post and announce it, I am also bracing for afterward, when I open my document and resume work on book 6. Because we all know what's going to happen when I do.
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