, will be available in 2011.
I look forward to hearing your response. I tell the story of
awakening one morning talking to dead people, and my journey from my
first profoundly clairvoyant experience to working with police and families
to find the missing and murdered. What a long cold road it has been.
I think you will enjoy my conversations with the dead, both ghosts
and spirits and what I have learned about the other side. I tell about
how the dead perceive us and what many soldiers, slaves, and even two
Rockefeller women have revealed about history. I have found myself in
procurious situations, surrounded by dark spirits, floating objects, and
involuntary automatic writing. I have cried with spirits for their
loss, and I have laughed at their stories. And, I've surprised them as
well, such as the spirit of the Faukier County, VA, circuit court judge
from 1791 who was didn't believe anyone could talk to dead people
until I walked up to him and asked his name.
Thanks to many of you who write with questions; the book has become
easier to write, as a result. Many thanks also to my husband and children
who accept me exactly as I am, although I know you wish, "I told you
so" was not a phrase in my vocabulary. I am monumentally thankful
to my Jack Russell, Steve, for letting me telepathically ask ghosts to
tell you to sit, roll over, and turn around. You have been a good sport in
my amusing investigations, and I hope you will someday forgive me!
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Excerpt from Investigative Medium:
It was the morning of September 21st, 2004, and I sat on my deck
overlooking the lake and rolling hills of Rock Creek Park, and I thought of
the plantation that once was. I could see several dark skinned men in
the field with straw hats, white shirts, and suspenders. After another
sip of tea, they were gone.
It was quiet. In Atlanta, I could always hear the sound of I-75, and
the noise of the city, but I had never heard the flawless sound of
silence as I did here. I remembered my excitement to spend our first night
in our new home, until I realized it was too noiseless to sleep, and my
first stop the next day had been the Home Depot for a white noise
machine.
I have wasted enough time this morning dreaming about what once was. I
only had one more box to unpack and my domestic duties would be
history too. By now, it was almost lunchtime and Chris would come through
the door for his peanut butter and jelly sandwich with potato chips
separating the layers for added crunch.
As I leaned over to pull the crock pot out of the last box, the only
thing I pulled out was my back. At first it was only a noise, then I
tried to move. Chris soon found me on the floor, as well as the humor in
the situation. I had moved dressers and sofas, and lugged the twins on
either hip, but a crock pot had gotten the best of me. He helped me
into bed, kissed me on the forehead, made his pb&j, and left for work.
My best friend in nearby Alexandria, Virginia, had already moved with her husband to
another Air Force base, and I calculated my nearest friend was six hundred
and twenty-four miles away. But somehow, I didn't feel lonely. Or
rather, I didn't feel alone.
I drifted off to sleep for minutes, or hours maybe, until I heard the
sweet, soft voice of a woman. Her voice was louder than the other
voices in my dream, and I started to become restless from the sound.
"I had a son the same age as yours", I heard clearly.
In my delirious state of mind, it seemed natural to chat with this
woman, but as I started to awaken, reality began to manifest, and I was
confused. Does she think my son is hers? Is she confused? Or am I
confused? Who am I talking to?
"He is my son and not yours," I said, and as quickly as those words
addressed her in my mind, I realized I sounded a bit unbalanced.
After a pause, I heard a compassionate voice say, "I know he is your
son".
I am waking up much more quickly now, and I perceive a presence beside
my head. I see the image of a beautiful woman with dark skin and an
almond shaped face. She is simple and soulful and composed. She defined
beauty.
"What is your name?", I inquire.
"Jeannette".
I am wide awake now and I see her smile at me, then her voice and
mirage fade away into nothingness. Whoa. I just made contact.
Long after the twins had returned from school and had gone to bed, I asked Chris to
blank his mind for a moment and just meditate to see if he heard
anything. I could feel his agitation growing. Although he knew I wasn't
crazy, he was becoming too upset to humor me for long, but kindly, he
remained quiet and closed his eyes.
I felt the same presence, the same energy or "feeling" as when the
woman had visited me earlier, and I concentrated hard to see if I could
hear anything.
"I pat his hair at night. He reminds me of the man I once loved."
I gasped! At once I knew it was Jeanette. "Did you hear anything,
Chris?", I asked.
"Nothing."
"It was the woman again. You have an admirer! I know it was
Jeanette. She said she touches your hair at night because she was in love
with a man who looked just like you."
_____________________________
The next morning, I surfed the Internet for local history. I found an
historical society, but it seemed to be a long shot. I sank into the
sofa, hopeless, but I knew better than to give up. My father and I had
climbed mountains and hiked through snakes, fox holes and chiggers to
do our genealogical research, and nothing could be as hard as spending
my childhood summers scrubbing tombstones in the heat of the South.
I suddenly see a picture in my head of rows of slave cabins, and a
mansion, or what folks here call a "manor home". I felt the same
presence again and knew I was being led somewhere and an explanation was
forthcoming. The urge to leave my house grew stronger, as if I were late
to an important event, and since I had no plans, I knew the feeling was
imposed on me, and I was absorbing it.
Precisely at the moment I had planned to leave, Chris arrives for his
pb&j. Another delay, and the feeling was growing more pronounced. The
moment he left, I sprung to my Chevy Blazer and drove to the end of our
driveway. I assumed I would be told where to go, and I was strangely
excited to feel the compulsion to turn right. Somehow, I was beginning
to understand that which was outside my comprehension.
I drove slowly for half a mile, awaiting the inevitable feeling of my
next move. On the left I saw subdivisions of recently built homes, and
on the right was still Rock Creek Park. A long drive came into view,
confined by a row of majestic loblolly pines on each side, which even in
this century, seem to oblige a manor home. I turned down the drive, a
little nervous about trespassing, and wondering what I would say if
confronted. The house was the same as it had been in my vision, although
I did not remember driving in this direction previously. There were
no stores, restaurants or schools in this direction, just rolling hills,
lakes, and the mammoth Rock Creek Park which extends from the district
all the way through Maryland to Pennsylvania.
The drive turned to the left just in front of the home, and into a
small parking lot on the side. I felt more comfortable knowing that the
mansion housed a business, and I may be able to find some answers.
I hurriedly parked and turned to walk to the front door, when in my
peripheral vision, I caught a sight which rendered me speechless. I
turned to see what looked like slave cabins directly behind the house, the
very same cabins I had been shown in my vision. I grew cold and
could feel every hair, electrified. I carefully walked behind the house,
and I could see flat grassland next to these cabins, as if there had
once been many more.
My left side became hot and I knew I was not alone. In my head I said,
"I know you are here. Is this where you lived?" I heard simply,
"yes".
I may have run to the front of the house. Perhaps I rang the bell and
knocked so loudly that everyone in the house knew I had arrived; I
hardly recall. A handsome middle aged man opened the door and said,
"Yes?"
I have never talked faster than when I blurted, "Hi! My name is
Laine Crosby, and I just moved into the yellow house..." and I flung my
arm to point west and continued, "and I want to know..." and I
paused as I looked around the door for a sign and said, "What is this
place anyway?"
The man responded, "These are the offices for the county department
of parks and recreation, and I'm Mike, the historian".
"Wonderful!" I gushed. "...then I need your help. Can you tell me
what happened here on this property? I mean, a long time ago, what went
on here and where I live?" The man began, "Well", and I
interrupted, "You see, I have ghosts. There are people in my house, and I
know this sounds crazy, but I promise I'm not. I want to know what
happened because there are voices talking to me of people I can't
see."
Mike looked at me incredulously. I couldn't tell whether he thought
I would be a danger if he opened the door, or if he was concerned for
me.
He said, "How long have you been here?"
"Only a minute or two."
He pointed down the driveway to a local news affiliate van and said,
"Were you here when that woman was here?"
"No, I just came."
"Well, she was filming a story for Halloween about our ghosts here.
Lots of people around here see them. Come on in and wait here, I want
you to talk to someone."
Mike disappeared up the stairs of this stately edifice, and I entered
the grand foyer. I imagined children running and giggling, and a piano
playing. I was brought back into the moment when the old grandfather
clock struck 1:00 p.m.
As I turned to admire it's design, I caught a glimpse of an old
picture from the mid-1800s, hanging on the wall. I leaned forward and
squinted for a closer look, as cold chills ran up my spine. My husband's
face was staring back at me.
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