Not everyone who wants to experience it does. Some who don't want ro experience it do.
I come into the latter. I am not a trained medium, nor am I a schizophrenic. Throughout my life though, the dead have spoken to me.
We had just left Barts hospital, my father was suffering cancer of the throat. He had been lying hooked up to drips and my mother and I had been holding his hands. The day before he had been up and about and even fixed the ward tv as it had been getting on his nerves.
8am the following day at home, the phone rang. I was up making tea mum and little sis were still asleep.
"Tell your mum I'm okay." Dad's voice garbled down the phone.
"Hold on, I'll get her." I said.
"No, no, just tell her I'm okay." He hung up.
I gave mum her tea, told her dad had rang, which wasn't unusual. So we started getting ready to go back to Barts to visit, when the phone rang.
"Mrs. Cooper?" a young female voice asked.
"Yes." Mum answered quietly.
"I'm the cancer ward sister at Barts Hospital." She went on, "I am sorry to have to tell you that your husband Sidney Cooper died this morning at 2am."
Silence.
"I'm sorry that can't be right." Mum answered eventually. "He phoned here at 8am."
"I think someone is playing a cruel joke on you Mrs Cooper." the nurse sighed. "I was with him all the time holding his hand."
We sat stunned, Mum phoned up one of Dad's friends from work who was a well known practical joker and blasted him over the phone. He denied it, Dad had kept how ill he was from everyone at his work, everyone thought he was having treatment for a stomach ulcer.
"Are you sure it was him?" Mum asked.
"Yes, he just phoned as usual it was him, he sounded a bit foggy, but he was on a lot of drugs yesterday. It was him." Mum knew I wouldn't lie to her. I wasn't lying to her.
The years passed I was walking past Harrods in Knightsbridge, and I heard Spike Milligan's voice loud in my head. "Tell the guys, I'll meet them for lunch. Don't forget."
Imagination of a writer I told myself, until I heard the news that Spike was dead. The guys he was referring to were Harry Secombe, Michael Bentine and Peter Sellers.
My boyfriend's house was a tip in the process of renovation. An old lady had lived there, she and her daughter had both met him and liked him. He said he wanted to take the house back to a Victorian look. The old lady said "Don't sell it to builders will you?" He said he wouldn't. About a year later, the daughter came round to say her mum had died. She liked what he was doing. Taking out the 60s boarded doors, putting up a wall to make a front room again, sanding the floorboards. "Mum would be proud." she said as she left.
The first time I stayed overnight I was woken up by shouting in my face, an old lady was screaming at me."Get out! Get out! This is NOT your house it's his! Get out!"
Strangely, I just said sleepily, "it's not your house either so go away!"
In Cornwall, we had a host of ghosts as did Tim and Sue next door. Hardly surprising as we had mine captain's houses built over the top of the Levant mine shaft. In 1919 men were trapped underground when the lift crashed. Sue & Tim's ghosts were slightly different, still Cornish miners, but they died in the 1960s, and they would go up the stairs that Sue and Tim had removed from their front room. Sometimes just legs in a nice pair of slacks Sue said!
Then we both had the visitor, a young man in a duffle coat who had got lost in the 1970s and who periodically came back to look for his friends. We had a medium visit one time when he turned up, apparently he sat in an armchair for a rest. He looked arty, beatnik style, long dark hair beard, duffle coat, she told us. She told him his friends had gone home.
"To London?" He asked.
"Yes." She said. He never came back after her visit.
"There are more things in Heaven and Earth Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy."
W.Shakespeare.
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