Tag Archives: ghosts

Ghosts and Spirits!




These two constantly get confused. In fact before I did research on it, I was one of millions who thought that they were the same. But , turns out , they’re not.



Spirits are not out to scare anyone. In fact if they do scare you, it is said that they feel really bad about doing it. There’s usually no ‘threatening feeling’ sensed when you see one. In fact, after seeing one, you’ll probably end up finding excuses for it– like tossing it up to imagination. Its truly that subtle.

Spirits have crossed over. They know their place is on the other side or other dimension, or afterlife or whatever term you personally use for it. When they come to our side, they’re just passing through.

Usually they come with a message or to help someone or something out.

Remember, a spirit is not out to harm you or scare you in anyway. If you have the gift of sensing them, then surely you know that when you do, there are no feelings of dread or trouble. If you are new at your gift and are spooked a bit at first, then pay close attention– as it will pass. They have a surreal calm about them and once you get used to things, you learn to recognize that.

There is NO reason to help spirits cross over and into the light. They are not like ghosts, they know their place and are just traveling around. They come and go as they please, without causing harm.


Ghosts, according to some, are the tricksters out to scare us. Why do they go out of their way to do this? Some people say its because the living love to be scared. They pay tons of money for horror movies just to catch the thrill of fright. They go to carnivals or haunted houses, looking for the thrill.

So ghosts are out to do just that, scare you. Its kind of like when you were a kid and you would hide from another kid. When the other kid least expected it, you jumped out and yelled BOO! Then scared the poor kid silly and in doing so, you got yourself a major laugh.

Ghosts are probably having one good laugh right after the other.

I have personally made jokes that when I die I was going to muck with so and so, so hard….lol. So maybe Ghosts are just passing time at your expense.

That’s one theory.

According to this same theory, though, people soon become comfortable with their Ghosts. They’re no longer frightened or scared. They give them names. Make them  the resident spook or pet—kind of.

This is when people begin to confuse them with Spirits. Once a Ghost becomes bored, which is likely if they can’t scare you, they move on.

However, sometimes they become worse. Raising the stakes so to speak until they can get another rise out of you. Hey, its what I’d do lol.

Some say the problem with Ghosts is, they do not have a place that they fit in. They refuse to recognize the fact that they’re dead. They simply do not see that they are no longer of our world and of  the world of the dead around them. They are sometimes completely ignorant to the fact that they’re dead altogether or that there are are dead passing back and forth.

This reminded me of something. Ever see the movie The Others? Perfect example of a Ghost. The mother and her children had absolutely no clue that they were dead. They still saw themselves as part of the living world. So they sought to hang out with the living.

Ghosts can be perceived by the living in a number of ways: through sight (apparitions), sound (voices), smell {fragrances, odors,} touch, and sometimes they can just be sensed.



Definitions based on common opinion . If they are not correct to you, then by all means, disprove them *winks*

Living with Ghosts

Great Grandmother

My Gran’s house was lived in by her parents, and they had it from new. It was just a three bedroom red brick thing in the Cotswolds, built to house factory workers for local industry. My mother lived across the road from my Gran, so I spent a lot of time there as a child, and my bedroom was there through my teens and college years.

 Gran’s house was haunted. The back bedroom (which was my bedroom) had been let out to a lodger when my great grandparents were newly married. He used to wander about up there in his socks. He was clearly besotted with great Granny, and he changed my family, introducing Tennyson and other literature to their lives. Said lodger went off to south America, and sent back a broach made from a humming bird’s head. There were letters, then he disappeared. Family legend has it that he very likely died at Gallipoli. Some time later, the sound of his socked feet padding about the room, returned. Lying in bed at night, I’ve heard him pottering about. Knowing who it was, he never scared me.

 Then there was the business with the piano. Gran’s piano was positioned so that you had your back to the door. I was told I had an active imagination, but sometimes I had the feeling something was stood in the doorway, watching me. Had the feeling been there all the time, I might have agreed it was pure paranoia, but the presence came and went. Gran did not have much money so I did without heating when I could. I remember being in there one day when it was really cold, and struggling to warm my hands up. The presence in the doorway moved down the room (the only time it every did, and I felt it keenly.) It put something around me, and I became warm enough to play. It was a very peculiar experience.

Sometimes, going into the house there would be that distinctive Monday wash smell. Boiling soap is quite unmistakable. Gran and I both smelled it on a number of occasions, when no one had been doing any washing at all. There seemed to be no rational explanation, but we felt it was her mother’s presence in the house, echoing.

 When my great uncle died, I had a fleeting vision of a young man stood in my Gran’s bedroom, which perplexed me, although when I told her, she said that had been his bedroom back when he had lived in the house.


 Strangeness runs in my female bloodline. I grew up with stories of ghosts, premonitions and psychic insight. It meant that when I perceived things myself, it didn’t frighten me. I still talk to Gran, and to Great Grandmother, even though both of them are dead. I don’t tend to get direct answers, but sometimes I have a very keen sense of them watching over my shoulder, not always approving of what I do, but with me nonetheless.

Just a short story…

I thought I’d share a short story I wrote sometime ago…

Play Ball!

The cold wind blew the hem of Kathie’s skirt around her ankles as she strolled down the chilly street on an October night.  She was exiting a nightclub and on her way back home, alone unfortunately.  It was just before midnight.

Where have all the good guys gone? She mused to herself with a disgusted tone.  Rude comments, worn-out lines, and free drinks seem to be the modus operands of most men nowadays.

The emptiness of her suburban home seemed to beckon her back to safety and security, but it also held the promise of another night without any serious chance of romance.  This thought darkened her mind and made her heart thump longingly in her chest.  Another ragged and icy breeze rushed past her, making her clutch at herself to fend off its freezing embrace.

She found her car just where she had parked it, amid lines of other vehicles left by the other patrons of the bar.  Fishing through her purse, a small black affair with studded rhinestones, she sought after her keys.  There was a crunch of gravel behind her; she froze as her imagination took flight into the realms of terror.  A leather clad hand containing a white medicine smelling rag clapped over her mouth, silencing any scream that might have brought aid.

Oh no! she screamed into the wet material as she struggled, but she only helped whatever was coating the handkerchief to fill her spastic lungs.  She lashed back with her left foot, attempting to crush the instep of the person (man?) behind her.  She heard a hiss of pain as the high heel made contact but no other reaction came from it.  He (or she) didn’t let go but gripped her tightly around the waist pinning both arms to her sides.  Frantically she shouted into the handkerchief, but a sudden daze overcame her and her eyes rolled back and her body went limp.

This can’t be happening… Kathie whimpered as darkness closed around her stealing away her consciousness.


Jason Bellows was committing all to memory.  The sun was hot and bright, the sky blue, and the smell of hotdogs and French fries filled the air.  He had just stepped up to the plate, his bat firmly gripped in his young hands.

My first at-bat in the minors! He stated swinging it lazily from side to side.  Staring the pitcher down with brown eyes, just below his soft woolen cap, he was aware of his mind a-buzz over the waiting with breathless anticipation of the delivery, quick judgment on the hit ability of the pitch, and the solid palm-buzzing feel of the bat connecting solidly.

The pitcher wound up and then quickly uncoiled as he hurtled the spinning spheroid towards Jason with a snap of his powerful right arm.  The young twenty year old stepped towards it, adjusted his swing with the trajectory of the ball, and continued his motion with a smile spreading across his face.

It’s perfect! He almost laughed out loud.  It was a memory he looked forward to preserving in his mind, to be shared with his friends and family for years to come.


The sound of the impact echoed in his ears and he completed his twisting motion placing the bat over his left shoulder.  The ball sailed over the pitcher’s head, past second base, and arched into shallow center field.  Jason dropped the wooden object in his hands and sprinted down the chalk line towards first base.  His arms and legs pumped, his body streaking down the line, as each impact of his feet sent pounding tremors up his legs and into his torso.  He kept his eyes glued to the white bag ignoring the loud and rowdy cheers of the shouting hometown fans.  He placed a foot upon first base just before the slap of leather announced that throw from the outfield was too late.

Yes, a base hit! He had exclaimed triumphantly to himself as he came to a slow jogging stop.


Kathie came to with a groggy haze dominating her confused mind.  She moaned as she stirred from her unexpected slumber, her brain trying to piece together what had happened.

I-I fell asleep in the car? She moaned as her eyes fluttered open.  She saw the darkness above her and realized the vague shapes were a girder-supported aluminum ceiling so typical in warehouses and factories.  Her eyes flicked from side to side as the sudden chill creeped through her dress and onto the flesh of her back sending chills up and down her spine.   She tried to move, but the terrifying attempt communicated to her half-dazed brain that she was bond by her wrists and ankles.   Kathie’s fear boiled up inside her and the heat of her terror burned away the last remaining fog in her mind.  She opened her mouth to scream, but found it filled with a wadded up rag and secured by a tight length of nylon rope.  She knew it was nylon; she could both smell and feel its distinctive odor and texture.

Oh crap!  T-that man… he’s captured me! She shrieked inwardly as the cold hand of dread gripped her heart.  W-what’s he going to do?!

As if to answer her question, she saw a tall male shape limp out of the clinging darkness just to her right.  Her body went into powerful convulsions as she threw all her strength into breaking her bounds and making her escape.  But the course fibers of the rope cut into her flesh and pain shot into her skull.  She couldn’t see his face past the black ski mask, his eyes were glittering and bright, and his thick lips were spit-flecked making his tongue dart out to clear it away.

“You’re awake, that’s good,” a low dangerous voice echoed softly from the man’s silhouetted form.  “I was worried I had used too much.”

Kathie shouted into her gag, but none of her words made it past the fabric to be understood by her captor.

“I suppose you’ve heard of me?  I’ve been dubbed the Hyatt Street Killer in the media,” the madman chuckled darkly.  “It is a poor name, but I’ve yet to come up with a better moniker.”

Oh no… h-he can’t be that monster!? She sobbed to herself as he reached for her face.  She recalled the three other women who had been tortured and strangled by the maniac who was prowling the city streets.  He collected his victim’s eyes, the thought of his staring into hers made her flinch from his touch.  She thought they had caught him, but now it appears the news reports were wrong.

“I’m a bit pressed for time, so let us begin shall we?  You have the prettiest eyes…”


Jason looked into the infield and his mouth fell open in shock.  A strange man was leaning over a woman with a knife poised over her face, the two of them were located midway between first and second base.

What’s going on? He asked himself as the rest of the players and crowd seemed oblivious to the scene.  He lifted his left foot, instinctively wanting to rush to the woman’s aid.  But he couldn’t seem to budge; the ballplayer in him knew if he stepped away he could be tagged out.

“Hey what are you doing?  Somebody stop that guy!” he shouted but no one reacted to his words.  “He’s going to kill her!”

He wanted to help, the need thundering along with the beating of his heart.  But still he couldn’t step off first base.  He looked at the guy from the opposing team next to him; the man didn’t seem to notice the tragedy about to occur.

What should I do?  I can’t stand by and let this happen!  I-I don’t want to be the initial out of the inning… oh God what to do! He roared inwardly.  His body reacted despite his mind’s dilemma, Jason felt his foot come off the base as he rushed forward to tackle the killer.


The tip of the knife, shiny and bright, gleamed as it eclipsed Kathie’s vision in her right eye.  She began to sob and cry as she pleaded and begged for the serial killer to show her mercy.  Her gag was halting all attempts to bargain for her life, she shut her eye in a last act of defiance until he wedged it open with cruel, rough fingers.  His other hand was twisted into her long blonde hair and kept her head from moving even an inch.

“Be still!  I must have your beautiful eyes for my collection!” he snarled hatefully as the blade tip edged closer.

Please God no! She wailed as a gray form appeared out of nowhere and passed through the murderer’s body.  She took in the details, as if it happened in slow motion as he sailed over her and into her assailant.  He was young, handsome, with soft brown eyes and a cleft chin.  He wore an off-gray colored uniform that seemed familiar somehow to her frantic mind.  Strangely enough, she could’ve sworn he was wearing cleats.

The effect on her attacker was startling; he stumbled back and spun to his right, his rear making a fleshy thumping sound on the hard concrete.  He swore loud and vehemently as he stood up shaking with all the furious ire of a wounded lion.   The long dagger flicked from side to side as he sought out the intruder who had crashed his private party.

“Stop right there!” a quivering unfamiliar voice called out from beyond Kathie’s line of sight.  She watched the Hyatt Street Killer spin towards the shout and raise the glittering blade.


The gunshot made Kathie’s ears ring and she saw her would-be slayer spin to the ground his chest tore apart by a single shot.  He took one ragged, bloody breath and then lay still.

Relief coursed through her veins, her muscles relaxed and she began sobbing in joy as the miracle of her rescue came to realization.  A heavy-set old man wearing a gray security officer’s uniform walked towards her, his pistol still smoking from being discharged.  He knelt down and quickly undid her bindings.

“Are you okay Miss?” he asked in a nervous voice.

“Yes!  Thank you!” she cried out and hugged her savior.

“Take it easy little girl.  I gotta call the cops!”

“What about the other guy?”

“He’s dead,” the man flatly remarked with a tone of disgust.

“Not the guy you shot,” she insisted as she clambered to her feet.  “But the one who tackled him?”

She looked around but saw no other person nearby, she was puzzled, did she dream it?

“There’s nobody here but you, me, and that… that… one!”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re just confused.”

“He was wearing an old baseball uniform.”

“What did you say?” the man asked with a serious expression overtaking the previous worried one he had been wearing.

“It was like in those old sports movies from the forties and fifties,” Kathie explained.

“Well this place used to be a baseball park, but that was years before I was even born,” the man stated as he tipped the bill of his hat up.


Three weeks after being attacked and saved from the Hyatt Street Killer, Kathie stood in an old section of a cemetery with a dozen roses in her hand.  She had spent the time off from work researching both online and at the local library.  Now, after all her efforts, she faced the grave marker of a man she had never met.

“Jason Bellows, born 1932, died 1953,” she whispered, her words whipped behind her along with the steam of her breath.  “I don’t know how this happened, or how you were able to help save me, but I wanted to say thank you.”

She knelt down, said a short prayer, and set the roses on the grave.  Tears sprung up in her eyes as she recalled reading the newspaper article about how this man had suffered a fatal heart attack while trying to steal second base in his first minor league game.  The wet droplets streamed down her face as she recalled he had died before learning of his young bride’s pregnancy, the family he would never know, or the life he had saved on one late October night over sixty years after his death.  She stood up and wiped away her tears with trembling fingers.

“Yeah, what are you doing?” a male voice inquired from behind her.  She turned around to see a man about her age, a wreath in his hands.

“Oh I’m sorry…,” she started to say as she looked into his eyes.  He had a cleft chin, soft brown eyes, and a strong handsome face.  She let out an unexpected gasp as she immediately spotted the family resemblance.

“Who are you?” she asked softly.

“Trevor Bellows,” he answered with narrowing, suspicious eyes. “That’s my grandfather’s grave you’re standing near.”

“It is?”

“Yes, he died before my father was born.  He was a baseball player, yeah it was minor league but it was his passion and dream to play for the Yankees.”

“Hey this might sound a little crazy and a bit forward.  But would you like to go get some coffee with me?  After you’re done, of course,” she said with a smile.

“S-sure,” he stammered with a blush creeping into his cheeks.  “I’d like that…”