Last night as I was sitting on the sofa, my husband left the room to use the bathroom.
As he was walking into it, I heard a little girl’s voice. Not sure what she said. My husband paused in the doorway and said What?
He had heard her too.
We had both heard the same little girl voice at the same time and we were alone at the time.
Some months back, I told the story of my former mother in law appearing in my curtains. She finally left and took the Newtown kids and teachers with her. And then all was quiet in the curtains except for the odd curious spirit.
Night before last, however, someone took up residence. Not sure who it is yet, but it’s male and very insistent and annoyed. It’s showing me all kinds of things to get my attention. The skeleton hand in the folds of the fabric, a face that is familiar and I know it at the time but now cannot remember. It’s even stretched halfway over the ceiling.
Whoever he is, he’s making quite a fuss. First he shows me an image, and if I dismiss it and lie back down to sleep he gets upset and tries again with a bigger, darker image. Almost like he’s trying to shout at me or lambast me into recognizing him. That doesn’t work.
I realize who they are when I realize it and shouting at me certainly isn’t going to help.
I figured out who it was.
Roger Ebert.
Figured it out last night before bed. He had started coming to me the day before he died. Since I recognized him, he didn’t bother me yesterday. He was so ready to go that he didn’t wait for his funeral like so many of them do. I recognized him and he went through.
A mother and her daughter trapped in the flames…
And in that instant, the fear and the grief of two people who can do nothing to prevent their deaths envelopes me, bringing with them whatever souls are attached to them.
A hurricane of the wailing of souls,
The Weary Cavalier 