THE GHOST OF THE CRYING INFANT & OTHER TALES

It is a mystery what happens when we pass away, after giving up the ghost, shedding our mortal earthly bodies. Do we go into the ‘great sleep?’ Is eternal paradise or the place of darkness already awaiting those whom have sealed their fate? Are we escorted to the heavens by Angelic Messengers or bound in chains and seized by the evil ones? Are we guranteed a departure from this earthly realm whether we are the forsaken or the chosen few? What are these entities called ghosts or wandering spirits? Should we automatically assume they are demonic or perhaps the haunting spirits of the damned? Are there souls trapped here among us whom did not ‘follow’ or ‘enter the light?’ And where does religion, spirituality, disbelief, and a life of sin come into play? Do we require a life of righteousness and belief in the Messiah in order to be saved and escorted ‘home?’ Then what of children, infants, the aborted, and unborn?

What I witnessed as a young man has had me pondering these questions to this very day. The biblical writings and books of wisdom have not fully answered these questions; we do not know our day and hour, nor do we know what happens thereafter. Throughout my childhood unto the present, I have witnessed many unexplainable, strange, impossible, and paranormal events. Some of which involved ‘ghosts’ and human or perhaps ‘humanoid’ spirits. Some have been terrifying, and some have been captivating and mysterious.

Over time, I have become conditioned and no longer scare or are intimidated very easily when experiencing such phenomena. I’ve learned to identify and recognize certain events and entities. But that does mean I understand the phenomena, its very existence, or the science and magic behind it. Here are some memoirs which will have you wrestling with cognitive dissonance, religious beliefs, or offend your reverence for the Creator. You must have an open mind, as the heavenly mysteries have not been revealed, and every recollection of witnesses further facilitates an understanding and ultimately a reveal.

THE GHOSTS IN THE LIVING ROOM

I recall a particular incident that happened around the time I was a little boy. I was alone by myself and playing without care. The home was peaceful and quiet; you could hear a pin drop. Minding my own business, I quietly strolled from the kitchen, entering the living room, and was stirred by what sounded like the ethereal voices of a woman and a child. And the voices did sound like what you would expect, like the stereotypical ‘movie’ ghost voices. There was a discernable presence in the room that even I could sense. They sounded like they were conversing, and turned their attention to myself, as the child seemed to be alluding to what sounded like me. The boy said “Who is that, Mother? Why is he here?” The mother replied, “Don’t worry about him. Don’t pay any attention. He will soon go away.” The boy replied, “Who is he, Mother?” The voices then faded and the eerie, ghostly presence along with it. I’ve remembered this moment vividly and pondered about it since.

THE GHOST AT THE DOOR

This event took place back home in Northern Alberta, Canada; my favorite place to be. I was in my early teens and we were living in a two-story log cabin by the lake. It was perfect. I had a main floor bedroom, just outside the stairwell to the top floor. I had a beautiful tabby cat that I acquired by the grace of the Creator. We were inseparable. I would take odd jobs, asking neighbors for work, just to buy her food. I remember picking rocks from gardens and fields; chopping and piling wood; and picking up trash.

The nights were very dark back home, but the sky was filled with millions of stars and galaxies; songs of crickets and frogs filled the air, with the odd barking ‘rez dog.’ The ‘northern lights’ were a frequent sight in the evening, especially in the winter; they were so beautiful and vivid, painting the skies with bright neon green and pink colors. The Elders told us children that they were the dancing spirits of our ancestors, and never to whistle at them or show disrespect; or they would come down and take us away for a ‘ride.’ I always wondered where these naughty children ended up. I didn’t ask. But we children whistled now and then just to see.

Every night my cat would sleep at the corner of the bed near the door, curling up into a ball. I kept the door open about 4 inches, allowing the stairwell light to illuminate my room just enough to make me feel safe. One evening around 2am I woke up to the sound of footsteps slowly walking around the creaky old wooden floor. The log cabin was old, and the wooden boards would always creak with every step—a great security measure for sure. Whoever it was, walked very slowly, and was headed towards my bedroom door. They were getting closer. I could not see anyone through the small opening.

My cat immediately jumped up, her back curled, tail straight up, and hissed and growled like nothing I had ever heard before. She sounded very intimidating. Her hair stood up from head to tail, her combat posture was hugely exaggerated by the outline of her silhouette. She continued to growl and hiss wildly. I was terrified! I went under the blankets and peeked out. Who or what was out there? Why was she growling so frantically? The creaking footsteps stopped. Whatever it was, stood at the doorway, and would not come any closer. Thank goodness! I asked my cat, “What is it? Who is it? What is out there?” I always smile when I reminisce and realize I was talking to her like she could reply. I watched the scene play out, ‘the battle at the doorway,’ while petrified under my blankets. Several excruciating minutes went by followed by dead silence. My cat then calmly curled back up into a ball and went to sleep. Meanwhile, I was still afraid, peeking out from my blanket fort, staring out at the doorway for hours. I did not sleep much that night. I know to this day that my cat protected me from whatever fate awaited me outside that door that night. I loved her dearly.

THE CHILDREN IN THE BASEMENT

I just hit my teenage years when this event took place. My parents had moved us to another new town, putting us in another new school, only to begin life once again in unfamiliar territory. My stepfather had just landed a job in the area, which required us to relocate. This time we were in western Alberta; amidst a bustling logging industry and a pulp paper mill that spewed its daily exhaust of putrid fumes across town every morning. We settled into a townhouse complex with a view of the nearby mountains and lush boreal forest. There were many trails, parks, and recreational areas. We all loved it here.

We were very crowded in our new home. The only space for my bedroom was in the basement, which was dark and daunting. It was large and dimly lit, there was only one light fixture, with a tiny window which barely let in any daylight. There was a laundry room in the far corner which was very eerie. There was also a creepy furnace in the back of the laundry room, whose dark area seemed to house a ‘sinister’ presence. I kept that laundry room door closed and made sure everyone was informed to keep it shut. My bed was set up in the opposite corner of the laundry room, near the stairs leading up into the kitchen.

For some reason I was never scared to be alone in the basement, for it was a bedroom of all my own. I also liked to sleep in pitch-black darkness, which led to another rule I imposed on my siblings and parents, lights out after exiting the basement at night. Before bedtime, I would switch off the light from the top of the steps, creep down, feeling the walls until I reached the bed where I would slide comfortably underneath the blankets. Near my bed was a night table, which did not have a lamp as there were no power outlets, but where I kept my books and toys. I cherished all my belongings as we were poor, and this made me appreciate the little I had.

I remember our poverty the most. There were times we did not have much to eat, even school lunch. One month we had to live on white rice. My brothers and I would do our best to flavor it with salt, pepper, and butter. We used our imaginations and did not complain, as we accepted this life. One afternoon, while dining on our bowls of rice, one of my brothers found a single slice of processed cheese in the refrigerator and placed it on top of his bed of rice. There was an immediate ‘cheese riot.” We were in an uproar; why did we not get a slice also? My stepfather, like a hero, stepped in and intervened, saving the day. He valiantly took that slice of cheese and tore it into three equal pieces, placing them on top of all three of our bowls of rice. There was immediate silence. The riot was over. Peace was restored. We all sat there calmly eating bowls of ‘gourmet’ rice. It was feast and famine. But we had a roof over our heads.

It was also during this time that I started my ‘sleepwalking’ adventures. Apparently, I’ve been prevented from exiting the house, by my parents, during several sleepwalking episodes. The thought kind of frightened me. What if they weren’t there to stop me at all? One evening while watching television with my brothers, I fell asleep on the sofa. I had this vivid dream that I exited the house, viewing it like a 3^rd person perspective video game, I walked around the townhome complex. I remember it was late at night and raining; everything was in color, but tinted orange by the overhead streetlamps. I walked through the sand of the townhome complex playground, climbed the ladder of a slide, and ran down. From there I tried to enter a random home, the door would not open, I soon realized the house number was different. I navigated my way back home, looking at my feet as I walked, eventually seeing the wet concrete walkway to my home. I woke up soon after. I noticed that my clothes were soaking wet, I was cold, and my feet were sandy. I got angry at my brothers, asking them what they did to me, asking why I was wet. One of my younger brothers spoke up and said I had stood up, told them I was going to look for our mother, and exited. I was very unsettled upon hearing this, wishing I would never sleepwalk ever again.

One particular evening, likely past midnight, I woke up to the light having been switched on, with my toys being scattered around the area rug; whereupon sat two young boys. I was too sleepy to realize their appearance, I assumed they were my two younger brothers. I watched them casually play and asked them to please turn the light off and put away my things after they were done playing. One of the boys slowly nodded, without looking up at me, and quietly said “yes.” I did not even notice his voice was not that of my younger siblings. I also did not notice that they both had light brown hair and wore clothing reminiscent of the 1970s era. This alone should have been alarming, but I was tired, and half-asleep; plus, how could they have been anyone but my brothers? I fell asleep watching them play.

Upon waking up the next morning, I noticed that the light was still on, which annoyed me; the toys were still scattered, which angered me; and the laundry room door was wide open, exposing me to its terrifying presence, which not only angered me further but creeped me out. I felt violated and disrespected by my younger siblings. I marched upstairs to confront them, passing by my stepfather who was in the kitchen. They were not in their bedroom and nowhere to be found. I went to explain what they did to me and inquired about their whereabouts. My stepfather smirked and told me that they were not here, that both of them had attended a sleepover party the night before. I was shocked. A chill ran down my spine. I was in disbelief. I knew what I saw. Who did I see down there with me? I shuddered.

I crept back downstairs, quickly slammed the laundry room door shut and put away my things. I was puzzled about what had just transpired that late evening. Not to mention very disturbed and afraid. I started to recall that the voices of the children were not of my siblings. And that their clothing was different and would not have belonged to those of my brothers. And that the ghost children had light brown hair; my brothers were black. It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps these were ‘ghosts’ of deceased children and may have even come from the eerie laundry room. Chills ran down my spine. These were ghosts, I thought.

Following this event, I hung sheets around my bed blocking the view of the laundry room door. I kept the light on and never turned it off. There were new rules that were contrary to the previous ones. My parents would never believe my story and would always counter with ‘scientific’ explanations. I never told my brothers as I felt they would be too scared to visit me in the basement. I remember this paranormal experience vividly and always reflect on it; occasionally sharing this ghost story with others—preferably in the evening for effect.

MOMENTS OF SLEEP PARALYSIS

Sleep paralysis had haunted me throughout my teen years lasting into my late 20’s. These agonizing moments of being trapped in my body, frozen, unable to move nor scream for help—too panicked to even think of prayer. The thought of being trapped in my body made me ponder certain questions, such as where am I? Am I the ghost in the machine? The conscious part of me could still see, like peering out a window. So, am I in the brain? I remember struggling to scream for help, only to hear suffocating noises coming out of my throat. My head seemed to become a container where I could still hear, feel, and see. The terrifying part is ‘what’ was in the room with me during these fleeting moments of panic.

One evening I woke up from a dream and could not move; I was in sleep paralysis. I was frozen on my back, staring at the ceiling, relieved that I had left the reading lamp on. I then heard something moving about in the room with me. But I was home alone. I could ‘feel’ its malicious aura and energy—I could recognize the feeling of a spirit being or ghost in the room. There was more than one! I started to panic and struggled to move; it was useless. The ghost or spirit entity then started to blow icy cold air onto my face, chilling the right side of my cheek. The other spirit entity stood at the foot of the bed. It kept blowing a slow steady stream of bone chilling cold. I could hear it quietly laughing to itself, almost as if it was mocking me. The entities eventually departed. I finally was able to move my fingers and toes, slowly regaining control of my body. I immediately got up when I could and blessed the room with Native American herbs, filling it with smoke and prayer.

Another evening I found myself frozen in sleep paralysis while on the living room floor. I must’ve have fallen asleep watching television. A blanket was draped over my head and body by a family member. I was waiting to regain control of my body when I sensed something approaching. Not a person, but a spiritual aura of something, and it was not good. Behind me was the patio door, and its sliding glass door opened slowly. I felt a very ‘tall’ figure walk in and stroll past me; behind it was a very small animal, like a dog, but a dog-like spirit.

I could almost ‘see’ the evil spirit as an image of a tall figure, dressed in a black suit, top hat, and red cape entered my imagination. The ‘dog spirit’ ran around the room very fast and it sniffed at my face. I could not see anything as the blanket was draped over my face, which made it even more terrifying. I still could not move or scream for help; I was trapped in my own body. I did not know what this evil entity wanted from me or was capable of. The tall figure stood over me and let out a very evil laugh. It walked past me, heading toward the patio door, and exited. It called for its pet which ran out following it. The door closed and there was nothing but silence. The minutes felt like hours as I tried to regain control of my body. Finally, being able to sit up, still shaken from the experience, I promptly locked the patio door.

THE GHOST OF THE CRYING INFANT

I was in my early teens when we lived in a small city in Alberta, Canada. I was attending a school that felt like an everyday battle of ‘Cowboys and Indians.’ Many cities and towns were like this back then, it was an uncomfortable time. I made many good friends and allies out of necessity. One of them was Trent, a fellow Native American, who eventually became my best friend. This was also a time of poverty for my family, a socioeconomic status shared by many Native American families, which eventually led to our eviction and desperate need of income and shelter. Much of these situations and distresses I vented to my friend Trent. I did not have many friends or family I could talk to.

One day Trent came to school and asked me for my phone number, which happened to be disconnected at the time. He provided me with his number requesting that my parents call his parents. I was curious, but did not ask why, and promptly gave the phone number to my mother after school. The next day I was surprised to see Trent’s parents and my parents talking in the kitchen. Apparently, they had a close relative who was incarcerated for life and had a home that was vacant. They were given charge over the house and would happily allow us occupancy in exchange for its much-needed repairs and maintenance. What a miracle and blessing! My mother was noticeably ecstatic. Our families became fast friends. They handed over the keys and we immediately started the move. The timing couldn’t have been better as it was summer break for us three boys, not including the new addition, our newborn baby brother.

The house was located in rural Alberta on a reservation known for its high crime rate and inhospitable, unpredictable people. We navigated to the location of the home—there was no GPS back then, only old-fashioned Native American directions. Which usually consisted of “turn left at the blue house with the old car wrecks in the yard, drive 10 miles then turn right at the old trading post, drive straight and turn left when you see the burned down house with the tall fir tree, you will eventually see Mabel Flying Eagle’s double-wide trailer, where you will turn left into the long gravel road, and you’ll eventually arrive at your destination.”

It was increasingly exciting as we gradually approached the house; driving down the gravel road, most of which was covered in overgrown grass and weeds. The location was remote and private. And the house exceeded our expectations, despite being visibly run down; the owner obviously did not take care of their home. We were still excited upon seeing the house, it was huge, had a basement, and was aesthetically appealing. We also heard it had many bedrooms; something which excited my brothers and I. We’d all had to share a single room for much of our lives.

There were bullet holes covering the front of the house, with a shattered front-facing master bedroom window. The exterior was covered in moth cocoons, very dusty, and needed a good wash. The interior was just as filthy. It was covered in trash, empty alcohol containers, broken glass, soiled flooring, and the walls needed scrubbing. But beneath this all was a beautiful extravagant home, which had potential, and was way more than we could ever afford or dream of. We were used to seeing such ‘party houses’ and did not see the filth and damage, but the potential.

The house was also filled with a certain gloom, a haunting aura, and made you feel uncomfortable. The house had a certain ominous presence. You could feel its chaotic past; it needed a blessing. We did not unpack until one of the large bedrooms was cleaned and bleached, where we unloaded our things and stayed until the house was cleaned and scoured. Not to mention, there would be no utilities, namely electricity for at least a month. My parents deemed the master bedroom off-limits, and we were never to go in there, it was beyond cleaning and repair. The room itself was beautiful, it was furnished with beautiful wooden furniture, a large poster bed, but the windows were shattered, the walls had bullet holes, clothes and rubbish were strewn about. It had this haunting ‘crime-scene’ look and feel—and was definitely ‘closed to the public.’ This master bedroom had stories, probably not good ones.

My mother had this house transformed in no time; it was looking brand new, smelled clean, immaculate, and was livable. The basement was an exciting place for us kids to play and run around. There was a huge pile of leftover clothing where we found a ‘karate outfit’ that us boys took turns wearing and fought each other to wear. That of which sounds disgusting for me to think about today. My parents spent the days decorating the home, making necessary repairs, putting us to work on exterior ‘cocoon removal,’ which repulsed my mother to even attempt. My stepfather would cook outside over a fire or an abandoned BBQ, which was fun for us boys as it felt like a campout. It was a temporary dream come true.

Despite the hourly limitations of daylight, the home had a fireplace, and we brought numerous candle lamps to illuminate the pitch-black darkness of rural nightfall. We all shared one large bedroom for the time being until the electricity and other utilities were restored. In the evening, us boys retreated to the bedroom, unless escorted by our parents; the house was spooky at night. My parents would enjoy sitting in front of the fireplace while we slept; I imagine it was a momentary dream to them, bittersweet at best. They would usually sit together and have a drink, or take turns tending to our newborn brother, often falling asleep beside him. We took comfort in having them near us as well.

One late evening, while we were all fast asleep, I found myself awakened by my mother who stood by the door holding a candle lamp. Her silhouette projected against the wall behind her, and her face illuminated by candlelight. It looked like something out of a movie. She asked me if my baby brother was crying earlier. I told her no and that I did not hear him. She left the room and closed the door. Apparently, she was the only one awake and wanted to relax in front of the fireplace by herself.

Again, I was awakened by mother who asked me the same question. Standing in the doorway, she left as I gave her the same answer. I told her no and everyone was asleep the whole time. A few moments later, my mother entered the bedroom again, asking me if I heard my baby brother crying. I answered with the same reply, “no and everyone was asleep.” She looked visibly distressed. I could tell she was troubled as her breathing was erratic. She then said, “Can you please stay up with me? I’m scared. I want you to come out with me.” Having heard that she was scared by something, I immediately felt scared myself. But I wanted to be brave and protect my mother.

So, I got up to sit with her in front of the fireplace. The entire house was pitch-black, illuminated only by the passing flame of the candle lamp. On the way to the den, my mother whispered, “There was a baby who died in this house, and I think I heard it crying.” I was immediately terrified, thinking, why would you even tell me this right now? And why me and not my stepdad? It’s past midnight and spooky at night as it is. We both sat down. By this time, I was disturbed by her story and could not stop looking around, as I edged closer to her on the sofa.

The fireplace was ablaze, radiating warmth into the cold room; faintly illuminating the den, and the kitchen behind us. But it was still very dark and eerie. As I sat there in silence as she continued her story, “its parents were drinking and partying, and forgot that they were giving it a bath. It was left alone in the tub and drowned.” I was disturbed even more and felt sad for the child. How could they do this? How could they forget? We sat there quietly.

Then I heard it, the ethereal cries of a sad, lonely, and infant in despair. I was shocked. My mother looked at me with her eyes wide open, asking me if I had heard it also. I nodded and whispered, “yes.” She looked as though she was relieved that she was not crazy or hearing things, but her look was grave and that of uncertainty. I could tell she was wondering what to do. She then turned to me and asked, “What should we do?” I was confused. Why ask me? Then an immediate thought came to mind, and I answered, “How about we pray?” She agreed, looking relieved, and asked me to pray. I thought, Why me? I’m just young kid.

I took a deep breath and put my hands together in prayer and began to pray for the soul and rescue of the crying infant. Suddenly a rush and feeling of bliss and peace filled my body, my heart, and the entire home. I have never felt something so beautiful, loving, and powerful in my life. The energy was divine and indescribable. It felt as though heavenly beings entered, such as angels, or even the Messiah responding to my call. My mother looked at me with her eyes in shock and astonishment. Then we heard it, the sound of a cooing happy infant, like one playing happily in a cradle; as if expressing gratitude and reprieve.

The divine energy and presence faded as if to exit, leaving behind a feeling of peace and blessings. The house felt different. It now felt blessed, comfortable, safe, like a warm home—contrary to its former state of chaos, threat, and dark history. My mother and I both sat there silently, speechless, staring straight ahead into the fire; amidst the peace, miracles, and wonder of what we had both just witnessed. I never spoke of this story until my adult years. Nor have I ever heard her speak of it.

This event has had me questioning what happens after we die and why would children or infants be trapped here on earth; lost in the spirit realm, walking invisibly among us, or perhaps stuck in a realm atop this one. This has had me questioning the afterlife; how could I prevent becoming stuck here myself, or even my loved ones. As a result, I now pray for all the trapped souls of the deceased of the world—it can’t hurt.

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