Copyright

Element

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Published by Element 2003

© Katie Coutts 2003

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Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction: My Story

1 By Appointment: Ghostly Experiences of My Clients

2 Picture the Scene: My Own Ghostly Encounters

3 Over to You: Ghosts Stories from My Readers

4 Famous Ghosts

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Death is nothing at all –

I have only slipped away into the next room.

I am I – and you are you.

Whatever we were to each other,

that we are still.

Call me by my old familiar name,

speak to me in the easy way which you always used.

Put no difference into your tone:

wear no formal air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.

Play, smile, think of me … pray for me.

Let my name be the household word that it always was.

Let it be spoken without effort, without the ghost of a shadow on it.

Let it be spoken without a tear.

Life means all that it ever meant.

It is the same as it ever was;

there is absolutely unbroken continuity.

What is death but a negligible accident?

Why should I be out of your mind

because I am out of your sight?

I am but waiting for you, for an interval,

somewhere just around the corner.

All is well. Nothing is past. Nothing is lost.

One brief moment and all will be as it was before –

only better, infinitely happier … and forever.

We will all be one together.

author unknown

Introduction: My Story

I was born in Glasgow in 1965, the youngest of three siblings. I believe I ‘inherited’ my psychic ability from my maternal grandmother, my beloved nana. My mum, Annemarie, is also very psychic, although her visions and premonitions come mainly from dreams. Nana was a hard-working lady, Irish by birth and very down-to-earth. She would often read tea leaves, and I still recall her accuracy. She wasn’t a confident woman and she would do this as a favour to family and friends, but I don’t think she ever took her ability seriously. I often wonder how she and I would interact if she were alive today. It’s a great source of regret for me that she’s not here to discuss her beliefs (although I believe Athena, my youngest daughter, is my nana reincarnated).

Although my childhood was happy and secure, I hated school from day one till the day I left. After leaving school I worked briefly as a telephonist, but soon gave birth to my first daughter, Natalie. She was my pride and joy.

When Natalie was four, I met my St Andrews-born husband, and Natalie and I left Glasgow for a new life in Fife. A mere hundred miles away, this place was worlds apart. We settled very quickly and I loved the picturesque village with its stunning views over the River Tay. Within a couple of years, one of my two brothers and my mum had followed me here to Fife, and together we’ve grown to love the area.

During the early years of my marriage, I did many varied jobs, ranging from sales to running my own business. The common denominator was that I was my own boss in every single job. Although I always knew what I really wanted to do, I was loath to follow my dream for some mysterious reason.

I have always been ambitious – a typical Leo trait – but during the early years of motherhood, my main aim was to be a good mother to my beautiful daughter. My happiness was made complete in 1997 when, right out of the blue and much to my shock and delight, I discovered I was expecting my second daughter, the gorgeous and hugely independent Athena. The girls were born exactly 15-and-a-half years apart, both on Thursdays and both at six o’clock.

And, if I had nothing else in my life (except mum of course), I would still be the happiest, proudest person in the world. I have the most beautiful daughters in the universe!

How it All Began

My most famous documented quote is that at the age of six, I suddenly announced Prince Charles would never be king. I don’t personally recall saying this but I’ve been assured I did. I still believe this to be the case.

I was around seven or eight when I had my first psychic experiences. While playing upstairs, I became aware of being watched by a lady. Later I was to learn she was my great-grandmother. I regularly felt a hand on my shoulder or heard my name being whispered. But I was so young I genuinely didn’t think this was anything unusual. I was never afraid. I never knew my granny (my mum’s granny) but I seemed to connect strongly with her and always have done.

As a child I preferred to play with tarot cards than dollies. I had a few experiences with Ouija boards but can remember a couple of frightening incidents. In fact, I haven’t touched an Ouija board since the age of eight. The friends involved, to this day, remember this experience with horror. I would never encourage or endorse the use of Ouija boards to anyone.

At primary school, my friends and I would lark about, telling each other ghost stories, most of them fabricated. Again, I didn’t take any of this seriously, but over the years I’ve been told by old school friends that I used to freak them out with the things I would say. Coincidence or not, many remembered what I said about the future, their marriages, children, careers etc., and much of what I apparently said has come to fruition.

From the age of 14, I began to take my ability a little more seriously. I would read palms, do psychometry and basically just blurt out whatever came into my head.

Then, after many years of being nagged by family and friends to take my ability more seriously and do something with it, I was given a pack of tarot cards as a gift. I loved them and studied them thoroughly, engrossed in their origin and the myths behind each individual card. My passion for Greek mythology was born.

A friend asked me to visit and bring my tarot cards. When I arrived, she had at least a dozen other people waiting for readings. The rest really is history because word of mouth soon spread and my phone began ringing off the hook. That was in 1991 and it hasn’t stopped since!

So What Do I Do?

The one thing I utterly despise is being called a fortune-teller. I’m not really a believer in fortune-telling – seeing the future accurately is not always possible. However, I know there are some very gifted people out there. I’m just terribly aware, and equally saddened by, just how vulnerable the public can be. I am renowned for ‘telling it how it is’ but I would never violate anyone who asked for my help. I’m sickened by those charlatans who prey on the vulnerable, and we all know there are many out there.

I’m often told I am fairly unique in that I don’t ‘predict’, but rather advise clients on how they can kick-start their lives again. Often this advice pertains to career moves, relationships and so on, but can often be as diverse as overcoming phobias and coming to terms with being abused as a child.

A great deal of my work involves healing, which I often combine with a marvellous treatment called laser therapy. This is similar to acupuncture, minus needles.

Someone recently described me as a ‘fate-teller’, which I thought was a rather lovely, fundamental way of summing up exactly what I’m all about. I have the ability to tell my clients what fate intends for them – which path they should be on. I only wish I could do this for myself but, alas, I cannot.

We often use the phrase ‘what’s for you won’t go past you’, but I totally disagree with this. If it were true, none of us would ever be unhappy, dissatisfied or unfulfilled. And I would be out of a job! The truth is, what’s for us goes speeding by all the time, and my job involves telling my clients where they need to be in life and how to make their lives the best they can (and should) be.

In my 13 years as a professional, not one of my clients has ever been surprised by what I’ve told them, even though the majority are not doing what I advise. I think most people would agree that our lives are mapped out for us. I guess I merely point out the woods from the trees and guide my clients onto the path fate intends for them as individuals.

I advise and guide my clients – the rest is up to them. I don’t necessarily take credit for the advice I give them. The way I see it, fate, whom I describe as my boss, shows me the way forward for clients. If they fail to follow the advice then their lives will continue as before – often stagnant, mundane and very much second-best.

My job is similar to that of a doctor in that my clients pose the ‘symptoms’ and I then make a diagnosis and advise them what they must do in order to make it better. If they don’t follow that advice, their lives will not improve.

Fate only ever offers the very best for us. If we want the very best badly enough, then in my opinion it is imperative to follow whatever fate intends for us.

I adore all aspects of the paranormal, even embracing complementary medicines and therapies, but my greatest love is ghosts. I just love to see the pleasure in a bereaved client’s face when I pass on a message proving that their loved ones are with them. It doesn’t always make sense to me but the important thing is that it makes sense to them.

I disagree with most mediums who say there are several different levels or stages to death. I simply believe in heaven and earth. In fact, I believe strongly that heaven is not somewhere ‘up there’ but is in fact simply an unseen parallel of earth. I believe that is how close our dearly departed are to us.

ONE

By Appointment: Ghostly Experiences of My Clients

In this chapter, I describe many experiences I’ve had with spirits during consultations with my clients. Consultations are possibly one of the easiest means of contacting a spirit – I have the client in front of me and, as I tune in to their energies, so the spirits come over. Most of my contact with spirits comes from these consultations. Of course, it doesn’t happen every time. Believe it or not, it’s usually more difficult if the client has arranged the consultation for the sole purpose of contacting their dearly departed. I don’t know about other mediums, but I find it easier just to feel what I feel, see what I see and pass on the ghostly news. I could write 10 books with the experiences I’ve had thus far in my 13-year career. I feel very privileged and also very respectful of the spirit world. To be given an insight into life after death is truly a gift to me as opposed to a gift from me.

The Vase

Jane from Perth had a very interesting story to tell me. Her main reason for arranging the consultation with me was a far more personal one, but when she began to relate the following, I found myself utterly engrossed.

Jane and her husband moved into their first home in the spring of 1997. They had been married only a matter of weeks, and naturally the young couple were busy making their new house a home.

Utterly exhausted one evening, the pair decided to have an early night. They both lay in bed reading when, out of the blue, an enormous thud could be heard from downstairs. At this point, the exact location of the noise wasn’t clear but as they tentatively descended the stairs, they were both drawn to the lounge. This room was the only one they had so far finished decorating.

Jane remembers that, despite the room being in pitch darkness, she did not feel afraid. During a later discussion, her husband was to admit to the same feeling. This was, of course, very strange. By all accounts it sounded as if there was someone in their lounge – and the most likely candidate was a burglar. However, at no time did either one feel afraid. They tell me they simply didn’t think along those lines.

As Frank, Jane’s husband, switched on the light, Jane was devastated to see one of her most loved belongings, an ancient crystal vase, lying on the floor. After an inspection, however, they discovered the vase had escaped the incident without the merest scratch – a miracle in itself as the vase was huge and the thud they heard as it fell had been resounding. Still, counting their blessings, they replaced the undamaged vase and returned to bed.

The following evening, Frank was in his study working and Jane was ironing in their bedroom. And, once again, thud! Both ran to the lounge and were met with the exact same scene from the night before. And, once again, the vase was intact.

Again, they replaced the vase and returned to the jobs they were doing prior to this incident.

The following evening, at the same time, it happened again. Assuming vibrations of some sort were causing the vase to fall to the floor, they decided not to push their luck. The vase couldn’t possibly continue to fall and remain unscathed each time so they moved it to a safer location.

The next day was Jane’s birthday. Frank sent her a beautiful bouquet of flowers, very fitting for such a priceless and sentimental vase. Forgetting about the three falls, Jane arranged the flowers in the vase and replaced it in its new location.

Ten full nights passed without incident.

After this time, the flowers began to die and so Jane threw them out, washed the vase and again replaced it.

That evening, the vase fell to the floor – undamaged once again. At last, the young newlyweds began to think there was something amiss here.

The exact same incident happened night after night. Jane was so afraid the vase would break that she moved it around the room many times, leaving a cushion directly underneath.

A few weeks passed and Jane, as planned, bid farewell to her colleagues as she began a new career elsewhere. She was showered with gifts, cards and flowers.

Arriving home that evening, Jane put the flowers in the vase. That night, nothing happened. In fact, the next 16 nights were quiet – the vase never once fell to the ground.

The next time it happened was the very evening when Jane once again discarded the dead flowers.

Becoming increasingly suspicious, Jane would alternate between having the vase filled with flowers and having the vase completely empty. The vase, she stressed to me, was solid, a good weight, so she had ruled out the possibility that the weightlessness caused by the lack of flowers could be responsible for the vase’s continuous falling.

This is all a few years ago now, but the answer to this query was straightforward.

When Jane related the events to her parents she was told that the vase had belonged to Jane’s grandmother, who in turn had inherited it from her mother – Jane’s great-grandmother. She had never met the old lady but was told that she loved her garden, flowers and plants, and was more often than not seen out in her garden picking the huge variety of blooms she had grown over the years.

It was clear, to me anyway, that Jane and her husband were not alone in their new marital home, but they had a spirit with them – the spirit of Jane’s great-grandmother. And her way of proving she was with them was to cause the vase to fall.

Breaking Jane’s vase wasn’t her intention. She just loved to see the vase filled with flowers, as it was while she was alive. Jane now ensures the vase is never empty.

Could the moral of this story be that heaven does not have a florist’s shop?

Alec’s Exam

Years ago, I had a friend called Alec, whom I still think about with fondness. I remember an amazing story he told me – one of my first experiences of someone relating an encounter to me. We were only teenagers but Alec’s story has remained in my mind all these years.

When he was only 13 or 14, Alec lost his father. He had adored his dad, although I believe their relationship was less than affectionate. I know my friend just wanted to be loved by his dad, or at least to hear the words that his dad loved him. Alec senior wasn’t a demonstrative man – in fact, as a very young child, I was always slightly frightened of him!

A few years after his father’s death, Alec called me and we met, as we often did, for a chat. I immediately noticed there was something different about my friend. He looked happy. He had a glow I’d never really seen before, not before his father’s death and certainly not since.

Alec excitedly began to tell me what had happened. He told me his father had come to him, firstly in a dream. For days he remembered the dream but thought little of its meaning. A dream to him was a dream. However, arriving home from school one day after a particularly difficult exam, Alec flopped onto the sofa with his feet up. Suddenly he sat bolt upright – he just sensed his father was around and knew he’d get a telling off for sprawling. It had become a bit of a private joke between Alec and his siblings. When dad was out, they’d sprawl. When he was home, they would sit upright. As soon as their father left the room, they’d laugh and resume sprawl position.

Alec looked over to where his father usually sat and was dumbfounded to see his father sitting there. He described his dad as ‘looking perfectly alive’. There was no grey mist around him. He was not opaque. He was just normal, just as he had been when he was alive.

Alec senior began to talk. He told Alec how proud he was of him and that, despite feeling nervous about the day’s exam, he had in fact passed with flying colours. He even told him the exact score he would receive.

At this point I was still a little sceptical but Alec continued. He told me his father went on to say he had been with him during the exam. In fact, he had sat right next to him – the only empty seat in the classroom. That seat, his father continued, should have been filled by a fellow pupil, but the pupil had received bad news that day regarding his grandmother. Alec had wondered why his pal hadn’t turned up for the exam.

Alec’s father apologized to him for not showing how much he loved him. He assured him he had always loved him and had, so many times, wanted to say the words but just couldn’t. He knew this had affected Alec but he was hoping that, as a full adult, he might understand his dad’s shortcomings. He leaned over as if to reach out for Alec but then sat back again.

The whole incident apparently lasted only a few minutes. However, Alec was to discover afterwards that these few minutes would change his life forever. He had finally heard the words he had so desperately wanted to hear his father say. He had also learned that his dad was proud of him. Gone was the insecure Alec and in his place was a young man with confidence and an air about him everyone noticed – although very few knew the reason.

Oh, and the empty seat during the exam … Alec discovered the following day that his pal’s grandmother had died and that’s why he was absent from the exam.

The Yellow Bubble Car

Fiona was a client who saw a yellow bubble car. A phantom one, of course, or I wouldn’t be telling her story! And, as you’ll see, it wasn’t just a car that she saw but also someone very close and dear, which gives one hope of an afterlife. We just don’t know if this is the way we’d spend it!

Fiona’s beloved father died very suddenly. Her mum struggled to pick up the pieces after 40 years of marriage. One of the things Fiona’s mum was determined to do was learn to drive. She found it a huge struggle. She wasn’t young, and the average road – even for the most hardened of drivers – can be a ghastly place.

All the time Fiona’s mum was learning, she talked of one thing – the bubble car she was going to buy herself. Fiona didn’t like to tell her such things had gone out with the ark. She just smiled fondly and thought this was a wonderful thing, and she’d have to guide her mum to a Mini when the time came.

The time didn’t come, however. Fiona’s mum died, and Fiona was doubly distressed to lose both parents in so short a time. For a while, Fiona couldn’t bring herself to think or speak of anything. Bubble cars in particular. The more she thought about what her mum was hiding, about how she had pretended that all was well since the sad loss of the man who had shared her life for all those years, the more upsetting it was to be reminded of those efforts to put on a brave face. Because that was all they were.

So about six weeks after her mum’s death, Fiona was greatly surprised to be forced to brake suddenly because of the car that had just swerved into her path. A yellow bubble car, no less. Fiona was intrigued. How very strange to see it there, right in her path, when she and her mum had talked about it so often. Of course, Fiona was a little angry too. After all, she’d had to brake suddenly. And all because of the silly elderly woman driver who didn’t know how to stop in a side street. ‘Wait a moment,’ Fiona now said to herself. ‘That wasn’t just any elderly lady at the wheel.’ It was her mum!

As the car sped off, the woman even gave Fiona a cheeky wave. Fiona, her heart pounding in her ears, sped off after her. For these seconds, her mum had come back to life and she had such a wish to talk to her.

All the way along a straight stretch of road, Fiona could see her mum, always just ahead but not quite near enough to catch. Then, all of a sudden, she was near enough. Fiona knew the moment was coming. Both cars pulled up towards the corner. The yellow bubble car went roaring round. Fiona followed suit. Then there was nothing. The yellow car had gone. Fiona stopped. The road was perfectly straight – no other bends for a good mile ahead, or side roads, or anywhere a car could have pulled off. Yet the little bubble car was gone, as completely, Fiona recounted, as if it had vanished into oblivion, gone up in a puff of smoke. Fiona was aghast. That was perhaps for all of two minutes. Then she realized that this was a sign, a very special sign from her mum to show her all was well. There was no need to be distressed.

At last the dream had been achieved. And not just achieved. Fiona’s mum was driving in a way that would have done credit to Le Mans. She hadn’t just succeeded. She had succeeded with a will. And that was what counted.

‘The Pregnancy’

Very early on in my career, I nearly packed the whole thing in! Why? Because I thought I had got it all wrong. The client in question wishes to keep her identity a secret. However, she has allowed me to use her story as it is such a concrete piece of evidence that life does indeed go on after death. This particular story has been told several times but, even after all these years, I clearly remember the details and the devastating effect it had on my client – not to mention almost on my career!

We’ll call her Fiona and she lives in St Andrews, not far from my home. When Fiona first came to me, probably around 1990, she was aged 46 and was pretty certain she was menopausal. She was experiencing many changes in her body, her menstrual cycle had completely ceased and she didn’t feel well within herself. She didn’t mention any of this to me but I picked up on how she was feeling. She came to see me because she wanted me to confirm what was wrong with her.

It’s often the case that I actually feel physically the client’s symptoms and pains – not a pleasant experience! When I described these feelings to Fiona, she looked at me a little strangely and agreed that she was feeling exactly that way. She didn’t seem too perturbed and quite blithely told me she was on ‘the change’.

At that point, I became very aware of a spirit. I heard the name Isobel and could feel the presence of a female spirit. It was a male spirit’s voice, however, that spoke to me. The man proceeded to tell me that Fiona was pregnant but that she didn’t know.

Without thinking, I blurted out what I was hearing. I could see Fiona was very agitated by what I was saying – in fact, she was downright annoyed. I passed on several messages from this man, most of which allowed her to identify the spirit as that of her father. She agreed with everything I was saying, except for the bit about the pregnancy.

The spirit clearly told me that he had the child in his arms. I found this interesting because I had always believed that life begins at the moment of conception. In my view, even the earliest of foetus is a human being. So I was confused as to what I was being told. If Fiona was pregnant, then surely the foetus was inside her – it couldn’t be in two places, so how could it also be in heaven? I’ve since seen many scenarios in which the spirit of the baby, if it’s not to be born whether that be due to miscarriage or abortion – remains in heaven. I should point out here that I have never had any sign that this is the case with stillbirths.

After talking some more, the consultation ended. I knew Fiona was not one bit happy with me. As I didn’t have much confidence in myself or my work at that early stage of my career, I took Fiona’s annoyance personally. I was deeply upset that perhaps I had got it wrong. Days went by and I still couldn’t shake this dreadful mistake from my mind. However, I had to keep to my diary so I followed my normal routine. Although my confidence had been knocked, I didn’t cancel one single appointment.

It was almost three months before I heard from Fiona again. She asked for another appointment as soon as possible. Of course I agreed, and we arranged to meet again two days later. Those two days were a living hell for me. I was so afraid that this was it for my career – the end had come before it had even properly started.

Very nervously, I answered the door to Fiona and we walked, without conversation, to my office. We sat down. I took a deep breath.

‘You were right, Katie – I was pregnant! Forty-six years old and pregnant. I genuinely thought I was beginning the change of life.’

Fiona then apologized and admitted that she hadn’t been terribly flattering about me and my work (and that’s putting it mildly), and had told a number of people what I had told her and how wrong I was. To this day I can still see her face and how genuinely sorry she was.

Fiona explained that she’d had a termination as she was just too overwhelmed by the fact that she was pregnant. Her children were almost grown and the last thing she wanted was another baby. She also told me that she had always been so against abortion but that she felt it wouldn’t have been fair to bring an unwanted baby into the world. I knew from her eyes how sad she was about her decision, but I also knew she felt she had done the right thing.

And it is for that reason that Fiona wishes her identity to be protected.

We spoke more about the spirit of her father, who was there that day too. This time I couldn’t only hear him, I could also see his face vividly, as if he were alive. I remember thinking how large his nose was! Again, he had the baby in his arms, so I was able to reassure Fiona that her baby was in capable hands. At that point in time, this was something I merely surmised and hoped was true. I didn’t have the experience or the knowledge I do now to know that this was very much the case.

The most amazing thing for me that day was when Fiona’s father began to leave. I swear he winked at me – a sort of ‘knowing’ wink, as if telling me something with his eyes.

I now firmly believe what he was trying to say was that the baby was safe and that she was in good hands.

The Piper Alpha

As a nation, we will never forget the dreadful tragedy on the oil rig, Piper Alpha. So many lives were lost and so many lives were changed forever by the enormity of the tragedy.

I was carrying out consultations for a group of three women. The first two were completed with relative ease and without complication. When the third girl came in, however, I immediately saw a heart-shaped pendant around her neck. Like a rabbit in the headlights of a car, I almost froze as I watched the pendant grow larger and larger. I know it was only increasing in size in my mind, but it was quite a harrowing experience. I knew instantly that the pendant had some significance on my client, and that the significance was enormous.

I didn’t hesitate in telling my client what I had seen but her reaction wasn’t that unusual. I did, however, notice that she became very sad-looking. Her eyes took on a faraway look – hard to describe, but they just looked so terribly sad.

As I began tuning into my client, making small talk as is often the case at this stage in the consultation, I became aware of the smell of smoke. I was frightened when I then began to see flames – huge flames – all blowing in different directions. The flames grew larger and, as they did so, I also became aware of the sound of waves. The sound grew in intensity, as did the flames. I was thoroughly confused. How could I see fire and yet also hear water? I began to feel a sense of overwhelming fear and panic. I knew my face was breaking out in a sweat as I sat in front of my client.

I knew I couldn’t go on. Something dreadful was happening. I could hear screams, and terror was building up inside me. The entire scenario in front of me was one I’ll never forget. The only word to describe it was horrifying, quite, quite horrifying.

It was then that I began to hear a voice, ‘Peter … is … in … a … safe … place!’ The voice was, in my mind, very staggered and difficult to understand, but I realized this was due to the other noises I was hearing. It wasn’t that the spirit was speaking oddly, more that I was hearing so many other things at the same time.

I was so taken up with what was going on that I never noticed the tears pouring down my client’s face. I was talking quickly, my fear evident. The whole scene vanished very suddenly, despite appearing in a much more progressive manner.

‘Peter is in a safe place,’ I told my client. I asked her if she knew what I was talking about. The poor girl cried harder at that point. Clearly she was devastated over something.

As it transpired, Peter was my client’s husband. She was widowed some two years earlier when her husband was one of the many victims on board the Piper Alpha platform. Peter’s body was never found (to my knowledge it still hasn’t been found), and my client’s biggest fear, she told me, was that if her husband’s body hadn’t been found, would that mean he wasn’t at peace – wasn’t in heaven?

I was able to reassure her (and myself) that Peter must surely be in heaven. The spirit clearly gave me Peter’s name and the message that he was in a safe place.

And the locket? The locket contained a photograph of my client and Peter on their wedding day.

The Brooch

Is it possible for items to attract a spiritual presence? I’d say it was, given the amount of stories that come my way about messages being passed on through them. I can even think of one where someone picked up a violin and proceeded, out the blue, to play the owner’s favourite tune – the deceased owner that is! But the following story is quite unusual in that the item concerned had such a strong presence attached to it.

Mrs Gair came to me for a reading. I could instantly see she was a very sad lady. Her husband had been working overseas, in Germany, and she had been expecting him home. But he didn’t come. Instead, the day before he was due to return home, he suffered a fatal heart attack in the street. This happened outside a jeweller’s shop. Earlier he had gone on a shopping trip, hoping to buy something for his wife – a special present to make up for having been away so long.

Almost as soon as Mrs Gair came into the room, I could sense there was a powerful male presence with her. There was no doubt from the way I described him to her that this was her husband, and she was pleased – as pleased as she could be under the circumstances. She seemed comforted to know he was with her still, and in many ways was still seeing to her welfare. But an even stronger feeling enveloped me as I began to see a brooch.

To see spirits is one thing, but the ‘ghost’ of a brooch didn’t seem quite right. It was, however, a beautiful piece of jewellery, quite highly detailed, in an unusual shape and set with a variety of stones. To be honest, it wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen before, and I told her so. I sensed Mrs Gair had been given the brooch quite recently. Her husband was showing it to me very clearly and it was obvious he was the one who had given her the brooch. What I couldn’t understand was how she was in possession of the brooch and yet her husband was able to show it to me. So I asked her.

The answer to this was simple. Mr Gair had bought the brooch especially for her. He had gone shopping with a colleague but they had split up. Mr Gair went into the jeweller’s and his colleague went into an adjacent shop. When his colleague came out of the shop, he was shocked to see Mr Gair lying on the ground. He was alive, but only just. He died minutes later.

At the hospital, the staff gave Mr Gair’s colleague the brooch, along with his other possessions. And upon his arrival home, explaining what had happened, he gave the brooch to Mrs Gair. It was a gift from her husband but he, of course, was unable to give it to her himself.

Mrs Gair had not felt able to wear the brooch. Numb with shock, she had put it in a drawer. After leaving my office, having received the message from her husband and realizing how near he was to her, she went home, took the brooch out of its box, unhooked the clasp and pinned it on.

The Wheelchair

A client came to see me for a reading and had only stepped in the door when it became obvious to me that she had brought along a friend’. It was a spirit who in turn was dragging an empty wheelchair. This seemed quite unusual – ridiculous in fact – even for my line of work. So I asked her, ‘Who’s the person with the wheelchair?’ She didn’t know. She couldn’t think of anyone – family member or friend – who even pushed a wheelchair, let alone sat in one.

The only connection she could make with my outrageous remark was that her mother used a wheelchair but she was very much alive. Not in the best of health, it was true, but alive and in a nursing home.

‘Well, that’s very strange,’ I said. ‘This person is quite impatient. They’re obviously waiting for someone.’

This still wasn’t much help to the client, so we moved on. We talked about a number of things to do with her life, and as we did the spirit vanished. I no longer had the sense of anyone there with the chair or otherwise, which was a bit of a relief. I didn’t want spirits cluttering up the place with wheelchairs!

The consultation itself was a productive one and my client left feeling fairly certain where her life was heading. I couldn’t, however, shake this overwhelming feeling of terrible sadness. My client knew this but as neither of us could explain it, I guess we pushed it to the side. I said goodbye to the client, presuming that the emotions I continued to feel would leave me before long.

In the meantime, the client went home. She’d been home only a few minutes when the phone rang. It was the nursing home. As I’ve already said, her mother wasn’t in the best of health, but when the client last saw her, she was fine. Now the nurse in charge was ringing to say there was bad news. Her mother had taken a turn for the worse. Could my client just pop round?

When she arrived, it turned out that the charge nurse had wanted to spare her. Her mother had, in fact, died earlier, before the phone call was made. It was all very sudden but the old lady had gone peacefully, sitting up tranquilly and almost happily, in the chair she had asked to be wheeled to the bed.

The Hero Ghost

Are people who commit suicide allowed to meet with their loved ones? I used to believe this wasn’t the case, that these poor, tormented souls were to stay in outer darkness, being denied this vital joy. I don’t know where I got that belief from – it stems back many years. However, I no longer hold that view. I have had too much evidence that the spirit can communicate and be reunited with loved ones, no matter what the cause of death – natural, after great ill health or suicide. I am certain, too, that one particular spirit didn’t want his beloved wife to join him until the time was absolutely right. Selflessly, he realized that the time wasn’t right for them to be together and that he would have to wait.

Mrs Greville had been devastated by the death of her husband. He had died suddenly at the age of 60, having been perfectly fit and healthy. When she first visited me, she was in a state of deep shock. How could this have happened? How could he have been fine one moment and gone the next? Sadly, these were questions I felt ill-equipped to answer. His death was so recent – only six weeks had passed – it was no wonder she was in such a state. So much so, I found it impossible to tune in to her. I was being blocked by the sheer, overwhelming grief she was suffering. I suggested she come back to see me in a few months, allowing time for both spirit and bereaved to come to terms with their separation.

Mrs Greville did come back. Only by that time she was even more distressed. Nothing in her life had any meaning. Her thoughts were consumed with what she had lost. The only difference between now and six months previously and a very worrying difference it was too – was that on this occasion I could see her husband. In his hand was a calendar, a large one, with the dates displayed in prominent black. November 16th was the one he wanted me to see. Then he pointed to his wife’s hands. In one hand she held a glass of water – her other hand was cupped but I could clearly see she was holding a pill bottle! It was obvious he was warning me. She intended taking her own life and there was nothing anyone could do to prevent it. No one, that is, except him.

I told Mrs Greville exactly what I was seeing. I felt so strongly, and for reasons I didn’t fully understand, that no matter what she was contemplating, this was something he didn’t want her to do. I told her if she did end her life, she might not see her husband again. I said that, unsure if it was true or not. It just seemed that he so wanted her to live. He had left her suddenly. Her death would only increase his sense of misery and that of their family.

I did not mention dates, simply that I believed her to be in danger. I knew that a great deal of what I said went in one ear and out the other. However, in December of that year, Mrs Greville telephoned me. My immediate feeling was one of relief. I thought, ‘At least she’s still alive.’

She told me she had been very low, so low she had seriously considered taking her own life. She had it all worked out. She met with her lawyer, putting all her affairs in order. She wrote individual letters for each of the family, and had even left a letter detailing her funeral wishes. She then filled a glass with water and poured out a handful of pills.

Thankfully, right at the last minute, she had remembered my words, ‘If you do this, you will not see your husband again.’

As she continued to speak, I could sense she had turned a corner. She would never stop missing him and the pain she felt after he died would be with her always. However, I could tell that she seemed to know her life had to go on. Maybe she knew there was some reason she had to wait, something else perhaps, that was still to happen in her life.

These next words are ones I shall never forget.

I asked her, ‘Out of curiosity, when was this exactly? Can you remember?’ Her reply was, ‘It was a few weeks ago. In November. November 16th to be precise.’

The Tidy Ghost

I’m actually quite fond of this story. In fact, I only wish there were more spirits like this one about. Even as I write it, I see shades of old fairy tales, where certain castles had a friendly brownie or elf and we all know what we can sometimes win Brownie points for, don’t we? Yes, tidying up. Only in this instance the lady concerned didn’t have a brownie in her house. She had her husband. In spirit form of course.

Long after her appointment time, Mrs Ball finally arrived – in a state of utter harrassment. She reminded me a bit of myself in that it was clear she never had a minute to herself. ‘Bustle bustle’ was all around her, and almost as soon as she sat down I could sense two things. One, she had been busy doing housework right up until she left home to attend her appointment. And two, she had not arrived entirely alone. I sensed she had brought someone with her, someone who couldn’t be seen.

I felt quite sure she was a widow and the spirit she had brought with her was that of her deceased husband. It seemed to me he was the most likely candidate, although I had no idea of the circumstances of his death, or indeed, at this stage, if he was in fact deceased. I knew only that this presence was male. However, the more I described him, the clearer it seemed to me that this was her husband.

My client seemed a little sceptical, perhaps afraid to believe he was there. She clearly required proof – a fairly common reaction in some readings. So I tried to delve a little deeper to see if he could give me something so concrete that his poor, bereft wife would know for sure her beloved husband was near to her.

‘Were you ironing before you came out today?’ I asked, finding my question comical.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s why I was late.’

‘Were you ironing a white duvet cover?’ I asked, amused at what I was hearing.

‘Goodness, how do you know that?’ By now she was becoming quite astonished. In all honesty, I was a little astonished myself.

When you’re dealing with the spirit world you think the messages that come over will be earth-shattering. In fact, that is very seldom the case. And there was such ‘ordinary domesticity’ about this one.

I explained to her that I was hearing everything from her husband. Her face went several shades of pale as I continued. ‘You didn’t finish what you were doing,’ I said, quite clearly seeing, in my mind’s eye, a pile of neatly folded ironing lying atop the ironing board.

I then told her that when she got home she would find the white duvet cover in her bedroom. I laughed as I told her not to expect the cover to be on the duvet, but that she would find it lying on her bed.

‘That’s impossible,’ she told me. To be honest, I also felt a little unsure of what I was saying.

‘Your husband’s going to put it there,’ I told her, feeling less confident than I sounded. ‘It’s his way of letting you know he is with you.’

After discussing many other things, my client left, promising to phone me if what I had said about the duvet cover was true.

Later that night the phone rang. I recognized the voice immediately. It was Mrs Ball. ‘I just wanted to tell you,’ she said. ‘I went home and it was all exactly as you said. The cover was on the corner of the bed – not made up – but lying there, ironed and folded the way I had left it. I know for a fact that I left the cover on the ironing board!’

Mrs Ball now had clear evidence her husband wasn’t far from her – something she so desperately needed to know. And, in heaven, as he had been on earth, he was such a meticulously tidy soul.

Sweet Caroline

Caroline immediately admitted that she had never consulted a paranormal expert before so would I forgive her if she seemed nervous? She told me that, quite frankly, she was terrified. I talked calmly to her, telling her there was nothing to worry about. I would be gentle with her!

Minutes into the consultation, I became aware of a spirit. I knew this spirit was anxious, too, as its body language was uncomfortable. It quickly became clear to me that the spirit was that of a young male. His cause of death initially seemed a bit of a mystery, but as I slowly began to relay his words to Caroline, it became increasingly obvious.

First he spoke of his ‘beloved’ motorbike (I immediately felt Caroline’s tension at the mention of that word). Gary’s name was mentioned and again I told Caroline that. She merely nodded, looking grief-stricken. ‘Gary’s body is whole again, Caroline,’ I tentatively told her. ‘What is not whole is his conscience. He seems devastated by his death.’

At this point I thought that of course he would be devastated. Here was a handsome young man, his life in front of him – a whole life tragically cut short in a horrifying way. ‘Gary says you must stop fretting and regretting that you didn’t view his body. This was his wish. Although you were broken-hearted at his sudden death, I know more sadness followed when you changed your mind about seeing his body but were refused permission. Gary would not have wanted you to see him like that. The only person to see Gary in his coffin was his brother, and that was purely for identification purposes. No one got to see him, not you, nor any of his close friends and none of his family. He was in a dreadful mess physically.’

I can only describe Caroline’s face by saying it was chalk white. She gave a tiny sob and I begged her not to hold back the tears. I told her crying was a hugely important part of mourning and that she was doing herself no favours by holding her feelings in. Everyone was worried for her. Gary was worried for her!

‘I love him, Katie, I truly loved him!’ I remember Caroline’s broken words to this day. Oh, how they tug on my heart-strings. All I wanted to do was go over to Caroline, put my arms around her and take her very severe, almost tangible pain away from her.

However, I continued to relay what Gary was saying. ‘Did Karen make it?’ he asked. He seemed to have no way of knowing whether Karen was alive or dead.

‘He seems worried about Karen. He’s asking if she made it? What does he mean by that?’

It turned out Karen was his pillion passenger – a friend from his early childhood. Caroline just nodded. I passed the vague message back to Gary, assuring him that Karen had made it.

‘I told him not to buy that motorbike,’ Caroline almost spat the words. She seemed angry now, angry that her loved one had been taken. I still wasn’t 100 per cent sure what the exact cause of death was, although I was fitting the pieces together. At this point I heard the screeching of tyres, then a sudden bang, several different types of screams and breaking glass. The sound of metal hitting metal made me cringe. Then everything went silent. I knew for sure now that Gary had been on his motorbike and had fatally crashed.

I then heard him ask about the van. As soon as he mentioned the van, two pictures came into my mind. I saw a small, red, rusty-looking van. I also saw a little girl wearing a turquoise dress and hat. She couldn’t have been more than four or five.

‘Did Gary hit a van?’ Caroline nodded. ‘Was there a little girl in the van wearing a turquoise dress?’ Again, Caroline nodded. ‘Do you know where they are now, Caroline?’ Caroline looked up, tears streaming down her pained face and spoke in a childlike voice, ‘The little girl escaped with only cuts and bruises.’

‘And her father?’ I blurted out, not knowing who was in the van with the little girl.

‘He broke a few bones but he’s alive.’

‘Is Gary in any pain?’ Caroline asked. I heard him reply that he was free of pain. He proceeded to tell me that he knew very little at the end – it had all happened so quickly. All he remembers was seeing the little girl as the van swerved into his path. He didn’t see the driver, and after that he only vaguely remembers lying at the side of the road, obviously very injured but feeling extremely calm and happy. ‘My gran was there at the accident,’ Gary told me. I passed this on to Caroline, who told me that Gary had been devastated by the death of his beloved gran a matter of only months before his own death.

I explained to Caroline that Gary did not have to make the journey to heaven alone, that his gran had come to take him personally.

As Gary began to fade, I heard Neil Diamond singing ‘Sweet Caroline’. But, I didn’t know whether to tell Caroline this for fear it was gimmicky – it was an obvious song for a girl named Caroline. However, I did decide to tell her, and she said that it wasn’t corny at all. She could relate to it entirely as Gary had sung that song many times since they met. It was his favourite karaoke song (even before meeting Caroline), and he sang it to her less than a week before he died.

So ‘Sweet Caroline’ did indeed have significant meaning for my client.

Dearly Loved David

Mother and daughter sat opposite me, both crying sorely for the son and brother they had lost. David had been murdered, his life cut short before he had even reached the age of 20.

The first time these two clients came to see me, I couldn’t get David at all but I did manage to make contact with another young boy who relayed messages of David’s arrival and how he was in the throes of his healing process. This explained why David himself couldn’t come through. At this point, I was unsure if my clients felt any comfort.

A few months later, however, they came back. This time David was as large as life (pardon the irony). I knew someone was there because I was met with the very strong aroma of men’s aftershave. This wasn’t just any old aftershave either – it was much stronger than your everyday aftershave. I asked the significance of this and was informed that David wore cologne imported from the Far East. And the two agreed that it was indeed very potent and powerful stuff!

I then began to relay various messages from David. He told me about the bike race, which my clients watched him compete in a matter of weeks before his untimely death. I almost laughed when David told me about his dental appointment and how he had gone to great lengths to avoid it!

This cryptic message was explained when David’s mum told me that David had a dental appointment, the first in over 10 years, on the very day of his funeral – the appointment was scheduled for 2pm. What did happen instead that day – and at exactly 2pm – was that David’s body was lowered into the ground. No matter how poignant that sounds, David’s mum and sister managed to smile at the thought. They told me how terrified David had been of the dentist and how he had agreed to go purely because one tooth had given up the fight. It had been neglected for so long that it had to be extracted.

I then began to see an image of a motorbike. Standing in front of the bike was a tall guy, not unlike David facially. He was older than David but there was a definite strong resemblance. I could see the man’s face quite clearly – he was speaking into a mobile phone and, for some reason, I just felt that the conversation he was having related in some way to the motorbike.

I then heard David speak again. This time he told me, ‘Colin has sold his motorbike.’ Again, I relayed this to my clients, but they shook their heads, telling me Colin, David’s best friend, wouldn’t sell his motorbike – he loved it. However, I was convinced and stuck to my guns. Colin had sold, or was in the process of selling, the bike. My clients were still unconvinced.

They telephoned me that same evening to tell me that Colin had sold his motorbike – that very afternoon in fact! Apparently, some of his friends were going on a biking holiday and Colin couldn’t go as his bike wasn’t fit for the long journey.

The buyer had begged Colin to sell his bike to him. When Colin refused, the guy was so desperate, he offered nearly double the bike’s value. And who could refuse such an offer?

The Not-so-holy Nun

One thing that never ceases to amaze me is how forgiving some people can be. I’d like to think I am the forgiving type, but as a Leo, I must admit I find it hard more often than not. However, I am often humbled by stories of forgiveness I read and hear, as well as by some of my direct experiences in my work. One such story has stuck in my mind for years. I remember this one vividly, as if it were only yesterday.

To protect her identity, I shall call my client Jane. I immediately felt Jane was sincere and genuinely nice. She was relaxed and easy to talk to. I felt instantly comfortable with her. And yet her eyes were sad, distant-looking. I suspected she was hiding a gruesome memory, probably from her childhood.

We talked a great deal about where Jane’s life should be going and which moves were necessary to ensure she stood a chance of finding the correct path fate intended for her. A number of spirits became clear and I duly passed on the messages they gave. Nothing startling – a great-grandmother who described herself and the circumstances around her death; an old friend from school saying she was happy, and so on.

Throughout all this, however, I was extremely interested in another spirit who was reluctant, I felt, to make his or her presence known. All I could hear at first were their footsteps – as they walked, one foot came down heavier than the other. And, for some reason, I felt this spirit not only had a bad leg but also wore a strange-looking boot. The boot seemed an important piece of the jigsaw but when I heard why, I was utterly horrified.

As the consultation drew near its end, I sensed the spirit was much closer. I was then met with an image of a nun’s habit, beneath which came into view the boot I’d been hearing. The nun began to cry – quite uncontrollably. I began to pass all of this on to Jane. The nun interrupted, repeatedly saying how sorry she was, and could Jane ever forgive her. ‘Please forgive me,’ were words spoken with real feeling.

When I put all of this to Jane, she too had tears in her eyes. In my naivety, I could not fathom why a nun would have any cause to plead for forgiveness. Nuns were good people, weren’t they? As it turned out, this particular nun had been anything but a good person while alive. She had, in fact, been a very cruel woman.

I asked Jane the significance of the foot and whether she knew of a nun or of someone with a club foot. She told me that she had been raised in an orphanage run by nuns. One nun in particular – this spirit – did have a club foot. In fact, it was by using her club foot to kick or hold the children down that she administered her punishment.

I expressed my dismay. Surely children didn’t deserve such a cruel punishment? Jane readily agreed but she also told me – and it is the way she said this which has stuck so firmly in my mind – that she didn’t resent the nun. She wasn’t angry with the nun because she believes she knew no other kind of life. She was raised in the same way and therefore knew no alternative. Yes, she was strict and yes, she was cruel, but Jane forgave her.

I found this one particularly sad because it was clear that it wasn’t until this nun reached heaven that she realized her cruel and severe ways were wrong. She was obviously remorseful but I wonder just how many children she affected as badly, and how many didn’t grow up with Jane’s marvellous forgiving nature.

Jane is now a mother herself and, as you can imagine, is a wonderful, caring and patient parent.

The Elephant Man

I have to say that I find difficulty in using this subheading for the following story. My more sensitive side feels it’s cruel. However, as you read on you will see why I have decided to use it.

Linda Millar came to see me in July of 1999. The minute she walked in, I knew she had experienced a great loss. Her eyes were dark pools of sadness. I was instantly drawn into a feeling of immense grief, pain and loss. Linda had clearly lost someone she loved deeply. But there was more – at this point I didn’t know what, but somehow I knew I was about to find out.

After the usual brief small talk, I suddenly blurted out, seemingly from nowhere, ‘Tommy is here and at last you can have your questions answered.’ Tommy was clearly the person Linda had lost – the one she was in mourning for.

From the very outset, I felt left out of this consultation. I say this because Tommy so desperately wanted to pass on crucial messages to Linda, and Linda even more desperately wanted to hear his messages.

I heard Tommy speak clearly, ‘I really looked like the Elephant Man! I didn’t want you to see me looking like that.’ I remember being intrigued by the way he emphasized that he ‘really looked like the Elephant Man’.

I passed this on to Linda who began to cry uncontrollably. Then Tommy said, ‘I remember nothing. I felt no pain. In fact, I slept through the whole thing!’ After passing that on to Linda, she seemed calmer. She looked relieved. I must surely have looked perplexed!

It was my turn to ask for some answers. ‘What does all this mean?’ Linda went on to tell me that her beloved husband of only two years had died in a house fire – in their beautiful new marital home in fact. She had been at work and received a call halfway through her shift advising her of the tragedy. She raced to the hospital, terrified, fearing the worst. The worst was confirmed minutes after she arrived. Her darling husband had died in the fire. He was dead before they got to him.

The consultant at the hospital refused to let her see Tommy, a decision backed by other senior staff, police and members of her family. Linda admitted to me that she was just as devastated by that as she was by her husband’s death. She could not get over the fact that she never got to say goodbye and then was denied the right to see him in his coffin. They’d told her he was just too badly burned and that it was deemed entirely for her own good that she did not view his body.

When she asked if he had suffered, the consultant merely shook his head, admitting that they had no way of knowing. Poor Linda had visions several times a day of her beloved husband screaming, terrified, knowing he was locked in a blazing house with no way out. She had nightmares of him trying to escape but failing to do so. She imagined the fear, the pain, the awfulness of it all.

But now, on the day of her consultation, without prompting and without me actually having a clue about what was going on, Linda was finally told the truth about what happened that fateful night.

I asked Linda if she thought it a bit cruel of Tommy to say he looked like the Elephant Man – surely he couldn’t have been that bad. But Linda merely laughed and told me that Tommy had been a vain man, and as he had bushy hair, he spent a long time fixing it. He would joke in the morning, when his hair was all over the place, that he looked like the Elephant Man. Apparently, one side in particularly was very bushy and stuck out much more than the other side. So Linda reassured me that Tommy wasn’t being hard on himself, that he did in fact use the term jokingly.

I wonder just how badly marked Tommy was. It must have been bad if the medics refused to allow Linda to see him. At least she now knows he didn’t suffer, that he didn’t even know about the fire until after he died.

What comfort Linda must have felt that day. And thank goodness there is life after death, otherwise Linda would have gone on for years enduring the most horrendous nightmares and day visions, wrongly assuming that her husband had suffered a torturous death when, in fact, he had simply stayed asleep, quite oblivious to the blaze about to take his life.

Jim, My Gay Spirit

Messages from spirits come in all shapes and sizes – all styles and all sorts of different, unimaginable formats. One, which caused me and my client great hilarity, sticks in my mind. I still smile about it today, some four years after it occurred.

Jim from Glasgow arrived for his scheduled appointment. Without wishing to sound demeaning, he was ‘obviously’ gay. In fact, Jim took this as a compliment. To say that Jim was camp would be an understatement. He was clearly a colour freak, as I counted at least six different bold, bright colours on the clothes he was wearing. And his nature was equally colourful.

Jim was a delightful man but a sad man. He put on a brave face for the world but underneath his gaiety (pardon the pun) lay a very unhappy and lonely man.

Jim had lost his lifelong partner, also named Jim, just a few years earlier. My client wasn’t a young man. In fact, he was well over 60. In his words, being gay in those days wasn’t as easy as it is today. He had only ever known one partner and vowed he would end his days alone, as no one could ever replace his Jim. I believed him.

Jim told me his reason for visiting was that he so desperately needed to have proof that his partner was near him. I instantly told him that of course he was because I firmly believe the dead are so very near us. But Jim told me he desperately needed proof, real proof. He had visited many other psychics, clairvoyants and the like, but no one had given him anything of substance. ‘What makes him think I can’, I wondered. However, I knew I would try very hard because it was clear to me that this colourful, amusing chap in front of me was aching for some sign that his lover was nearby.

I didn’t have to wait long, for within a split second, the loudest, most gregarious, most delightful spirit joined us. In an acutely feminine voice, I heard words to the effect of ‘Why did you do that to the lounge? What possessed you? And those curtains, tuh! Those curtains.’ I could all but see this spirit’s hands rise in disbelief. ‘And get that bloody awful wheelchair out of our bedroom – I hated it when I was in it, so don’t make me have to look at it every minute of the day!’

Jim burst out laughing. This indeed sounded like his lifetime partner. He admitted that Jim was bossy, loud and brash, liked his own way and more, but he was so, so thrilled that he had come over.

Jim had kept his lover’s wheelchair – not for any sinister reason but because he felt it was such a part of him. Clearly the other Jim did not want it to be a part of him. My client told me it would be removed as soon as he got home – to his newly decorated lounge.

Spirit Jim had much more traditional taste. Although client Jim admitted he really hadn’t minded, their home was largely decorated to spirit Jim’s taste. After his death, Jim redecorated and completely changed the look of their home. It was evident that his dead lover did not approve, yet everything he said, albeit in a somewhat imperious manner, was really quite light-hearted. I somehow knew to take no offence from the spirit’s words, and clearly so did my client.

My client was by now much happier and the entire consultation was taken up by the spirit giving orders, making affectionate comments, then giving more orders. Clearly the two had loved one another deeply. We laughed a lot, and when Jim left, I thankfully saw that not only were his clothes colourful but his face, his eyes and undoubtedly his heart and soul also had a great deal more colour than when he’d arrived.

If you’re reading this, Jim, I hope you are coping with Jim’s orders, even now, beyond the grave.

Wartime Sweethearts

A lot of people wrongly assume that my kind of work is sought only by ‘women of a certain age’. This is certainly not the case. My clients are of all ages and come from many different walks of life. I have teenage boys, old men, professionals and manual workers among my clientele. So why am I telling you this? Read on …

Bertie came to me at a ripe old age. He was an agile man for his age, although arthritis had made him smaller as the years went by. The lines on his face defied his age but his heart was worn out, both physically and emotionally. His eyes were sad. In fact, I’d say his eyes were pretty dead. Gone was the sparkle I immediately saw when I imagined him as a much younger man.

Bertie came into my office and sat down. I was about to close the door behind him when I stopped as I felt the presence of another. I waited and unseeingly allowed the other person to follow us in. As they did so, I was engulfed by a smell I couldn’t name but which reminded me, for some reason, of my childhood.

This ‘other person’ floated past me. I heard her say, ‘Hello dear, I’m Elsie’ as clearly as Bertie had said, ‘Hi Katie, I’m Bertie’. But no, I didn’t go as far as to pull up another chair!

Naturally, I described everything I was seeing to my client, and to my surprise he told me he already knew. He told me Elsie had been his wife for most of his adult life. Together they had survived a war, the raising of seven children and many other hardships life had thrown at them. But they were strong and as much in love more than 60 years later as they had been the day they met.

Visions crossed my mind, many going back to when they were young. I simply sat and narrated to Bertie everything I was seeing. I saw their children, now grown, as little people playing in a park (this particular scene flashed before me many times and clearly I was seeing them over many years as the children were bigger each time). Bertie smiled at this as he remembered well the park I was seeing. He told me that the park no longer existed and that it had been turned into a housing estate.

One very profound scene involved Bertie as a handsome young man, dressed in war uniform. The couple looked sad, which was to be expected, but there was something about Elsie’s eyes that made me more inquisitive. I asked Bertie why I felt extremely sad, apart from the fact that he was going to war. My query was answered when Bertie told me that the day he left to go to war was the same day Elsie buried her mother.

If this story serves to teach me anything, it is that death needn’t be final. Bertie believes he has lost his wife – at least he’s lost her body – but he firmly believes her soul and everything she was inside is with him every waking moment. He still misses her, even though he is comforted by the presence of her spirit.

Sisters

Caroline had been troubled for some time. This was by someone or something that seemed to be following her everywhere. She had never believed in the spirit world. To her it was nonsense dreamed up by people with vivid imaginations who wanted to believe that their loved ones hadn’t left them. That was why she was so surprised when she first sensed that the shadow flitting round herself didn’t seem to belong to anything. This was just the start.

Caroline found herself haunted by someone who picked up pieces of jewellery from places where she had left them and put them down elsewhere, by a shadow which went into rooms ahead of her and put on the television – a ghost which seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. Caroline was terrified.

When she first came to me I was a little sceptical. Caroline lived alone and I thought she might be suffering from an over-exuberant imagination – one that saw ghosts in every corner. But then I became convinced. As the reading progressed, it seemed to me Caroline did have a spirit round her, and this was someone she should have known well, because it was a sister.

The trouble was, Caroline said she didn’t have a sister. She was, she said, ‘an only one’. This didn’t seem possible. The girl I was seeing was exactly like Caroline. In looks, in height, in weight, they might have been twins. I was amazed she could say there was no one in her family like this, that her parents had never had another child. What was more, it was coming across clearly to me that this sister had chosen to look out for Caroline since she moved away from home.

‘But you must have had a sister,’ I could only gasp. Like most of us, I hate being wrong, and in this instance Caroline’s insistence made me feel like a complete fool. Here I was, having actually set out not believing her story, now saying it was true and a non-existent sister was looking out for her.

I was very glad when Caroline left my office. This was one phantom that didn’t exist, a real ‘phantom phantom’, so to speak. I wanted to go and lie down in a darkened room and forget about ever doing a reading again!

I didn’t though. The next day I was back at it, with several new clients. I’d even managed to put Caroline out my mind when the phone rang and there she was. ‘You won’t believe this,’ she said. I confess I actually thought, ‘What is it now? More doings of the phantom sister?’ – quite uncharacteristically, I must add!

‘I expect this won’t much surprise you, but I do have a sister. I asked Mum.’

It turned out that Caroline was not an ‘only one’ after all. There had been a ‘first born’, a girl who, if she had lived, would have been two years older than Caroline. But she didn’t live. She died roughly a day after she was born. Caroline’s parents had been devastated. Then Caroline came along. With a typical ‘stiff upper lip’ they never again discussed the little girl they had lost, throwing all their energies into raising Caroline. And after a while there seemed very little point in mentioning it to her, until Caroline asked.

Yet her sister was very clearly with her. In fact, she had probably always been but was waiting for her moment, for the time when she felt she was needed. That was when she decided to make her presence known and do what every big sister does – look after the little one. It was as if she had decided that even death wasn’t going to stop her.

‘You must go back for Alison … she needs you’

When Kirsten first came to me, she’d no idea who this phantom Alison was. But she was very disturbed by the thought of her and by what had happened only a month before. So disturbed, she felt she had to seek help, at least to get it off her chest. The experience was so profound, she didn’t know where to turn. Although she knew that the people, or rather the spirits of the people, involved were her own dearly loved parents, the confusion was such, she was left wondering if she had imagined it all. I was convinced, however, that she wasn’t. When one of the things they said to her came about, what other proof was needed? When you hear this story, I’m sure you’ll agree, to quote the bard, ‘there are more things in heaven and earth …’.

Kirsten’s story begins on Christmas Eve. She had been allowed home from hospital just for the festive season to spend some time with her husband and children. Kirsten had been very ill. So ill that, at one point, staff had feared she would die. Kirsten didn’t die, however, but held on bravely. As Christmas approached, she begged to be allowed to go home. All the other members of her family – her beloved parents and grandparents – were dead, so she was especially desperate to be home with those she was devoted to. The hospital staff agreed, and at five o’clock that evening, the taxi carrying her drew up at the door of her house.

She was delighted to be home but she had not been there long when she began to feel unwell. The excitement of the trip had been too much for her and she begged to be allowed to go upstairs and lie down. Her temperature shot up. She became delirious and, as she did, realized she had made a mistake in asking to come home. Downstairs she could hear her husband and children laughing as they set up the table for the next day. Suddenly she felt strongly it was a meal she was never going to see.

As she grew progressively weaker, the room seeming to fade away before her, she attempted to rise from the bed. But she was weak and toppled over. Instead of falling down, however, she was aware of a strange sensation, as if she was floating. Suddenly, she didn’t care if she hurt herself. She was too weak to cry out for help. The feeling was wonderful – all her cares were draining away.

A mist grew up round her. As it did she saw that the room was swathed in layers and layers of white tulle – so beautiful, she gasped. Then she became aware of the figure coming towards her. It was her father, as clear as if he was still alive. Behind him, and looking exactly as she remembered him, was her beloved grandfather. Now Kirsten’s eyes filled with tears – ones of happiness though. She tried to reach through the mist towards them in the hope of touching their hands, but though they both looked happy enough to see her, her father shook his head. Kirsten remembers clearly the words he said.

‘You must go back. You will recover and you’ve much do to in your life before you can join us. You’re to go back for Alison, she needs you.’

Only at that point did Kirsten feel that she was being robbed. ‘But I don’t know any Alison,’ she said. ‘Please let me come with you.’

Her father shook his head. Kirsten felt the image fading. Then she must have fallen asleep. She was woken by her husband bringing the children in to show her some of the decorations they had been making for Christmas Day.

Kirsten had no idea whether what she had seen was a dream or not, but for the first time she felt better. The next day passed wonderfully for her and she went back into hospital to be told she was on the mend. She came to me because she wasn’t sure. There were things about what had happened she didn’t understand. Most importantly, she’d no idea who Alison was. She needed to find out.

‘Well, that’s not a problem,’ I told her. ‘I’m surprised you don’t know already. My vibes all tell me you’re pregnant.’

This was, of course, a great shock to Kirsten. She already had three children and a fourth – well, that would make things difficult, she felt. Was I sure?

‘I’m very sure!’ I told her. ‘What’s more, it’s a little girl.’

In this respect I was proved right. Kirsten did have a baby daughter, just under eight months later. Naturally, she called her Alison. Even then, as she remembered what had happened on that Christmas Eve, she still had cause to wonder about many things. Had she really been as close to death as all that? Was what she saw a vision of heaven? Did her parents and grandparents really watch over her?

Eventually, as Alison grew into a lovely little girl, there were no doubts. ‘That’s granddad,’ she said one day, pointing out a picture of Kirsten’s dad, one that had been taken three months before his death. ‘He wasn’t well then.’

‘Yes,’ Kirsten was amazed. ‘But how do you know?’

The little girl smiled. ‘Because I’ve met him.’

The Man who Went to his Own Funeral

Old John McFarlane was a very determined man – so determined, in fact, that he went to his own funeral and was seen there by no fewer than four people. I got to hear of it when one of them came to me for a reading.

Since she was his daughter, it seemed natural that Shona would be one of the first to notice the man in respectful black, standing at the fringes of the crowd. He was only there for a second or two but, to quote her own words, ‘she knew her own father when she saw him’.

John McFarlane had been ill for some time and had died only a few days earlier. But it seemed he wanted to go to the funeral. Why? It was something I immediately wanted to know. Even before I had put the question, however, Shona told me. ‘He wanted to see who was there,’ she said. How did she know? Well, apparently, John came to her in a dream two days later and told her. He was a bit of a mischievous charmer. That much I certainly picked up on from the reading, where he came over to me and said there was no harm done, he hadn’t intended to frighten anyone!

Shona came to see me because she was worried about her mum. Since the funeral, this lady’s health had gone downhill – she had seen John that day but that was not the reason for her deterioration in health. With someone as strong-willed as John about, it seemed silly not to ask him. Clear as day, I heard him say, ‘She just misses me!’ He also kept using the word ‘dream’. I believed he was communicating through this medium, using it to tell Shona to get in touch with him, through me, if there was anything worrying her at all.

My own vibes, incidentally, weren’t bad. I could see many happy occasions for Shona’s family in the future, all with her mum there. This suggested to me that whatever illness her mum had, it was temporary. In this I was proved correct.

The next time Shona contacted me, she was in a state. Her dad had come to her, again in a dream, and explained there was nothing seriously wrong with her mum and she wasn’t to worry. But then he had told her he didn’t know if he would be back, although he would always watch out for her. It was almost as if he’d got himself into bother by attending his own funeral. I had to admit it was quite daring of him really. In all my work with the paranormal, I’d not come across it very often.

When Shona came for another reading, this time there was no sign of John. He’d quite clearly said his goodbyes to her, several times really, if the appearance at the funeral and the dreams were anything to go by. And, in its way, although his actual appearance at the funeral had been unnerving, it was oddly comforting too.

It had said to Shona that her dad was with her always and that death was only a veil between them. Knowing that had helped her through a difficult time and allowed her to help her mum. In many ways John’s appearances were a gift, one she had been grateful to receive.

‘Peter Put the Kettle on’

We’ve all heard of Polly and her little friend Sukey’s antics with the kettle, but this is the lesser-known tale of Peter who much preferred ‘teasmaids’ when it came to boiling up a cup of tea. Peter was the husband of a client of mine. He had been dead for six months when she came to see me. Although grieving she had a secret that made it easier for her to accept Peter’s death. This was the belief that he wasn’t really gone. In fact, he’d never been gone. From the first time she heard him turning over in bed to switch on the machine for their morning cuppa, she knew.

The couple had always had a teasmaid, one of those little machines that makes the morning cup of tea. And they’d liked having one so much, they had one on each side of the bed. First of all, the radio alarm would go off; then Peter would reach over and put on both teasmaids and the teapots would start to churn. Regular as clockwork, every morning, he made this his first duty.

After Peter’s death, both machines stopped working! Obviously, this wasn’t normal and it greatly upset my client. That was why, having shed tears about it, she was so astonished a few days later when she heard the switch click on her own teasmaid and the chug chug of the mechanism as if it was brewing up a cuppa. She sat up but there was no one there. Her teasmaid was on – something she hadn’t done and it couldn’t have done itself.

At first my client thought she was dreaming. The next morning, however, she heard the ping of the switch, then the chug chug of the cuppa brewing itself. Again, she sat up and, as she did, she also heard footsteps going down the stairs. For a moment she froze. Was someone in the house? The sound was very like Peter. Then she heard the hall window being opened and she smiled. Peter had always done that when he was alive. Now she was certain. He hadn’t really gone.

My client has continued from that day to this to hear Peter. There isn’t a morning that goes by without the teasmaid clicking into action. His has still never worked, which makes it all the more strange that hers always switches itself on! After a few moments, she hears him going down the stairs.

On other occasions, too, when she has been unbearably lonely, she says, ‘I have felt him snuggle into my back and put his arms protectively around me. I know some people will say this is wishful thinking, but it’s not. I know he’s there.’

I think it would take a particularly cold-hearted cynic to disagree. I can tell you now I’ve always believed her. Not just because of the business with the teasmaid but because of the amount of letters I’ve received about similar experiences – the presence of a loved one continuing to carry out all the little tasks they did in life.

In my opinion, this is ample evidence that our loved ones are still very near to us indeed.

The Persistent Papa

When Stephanie first came to see me, she brought someone along – her dad. As I’ve said before, there’s nothing unusual in that and, yes, before you ask, he was dead. But what was unusual and causing trouble was that Stephanie had no idea this was her dad. Her mother had been hiding a secret. Stephanie had always believed her dad’s name was George, but the man with her, who wasted no time telling me who he was, was called Charlie.

Stephanie’s mother had never been happily married and had known Charlie only briefly. But Stephanie had no idea of this. To be honest, neither had I. When I told Stephanie about Charlie, she didn’t know who I was talking about. In fact, she even thought I was a fraud! We had a bit of a disagreement, which in many ways wasn’t unnatural. I suppose I put my foot in it to some extent.

However, I could see Charlie so clearly. It was almost as if he was waiting for the opportunity to tell Stephanie how he felt about her. And that was proud. He hadn’t always been able to be with her. He was honest about that much. But never having achieved that much himself, he was glad to know that Stephanie had worked hard and become a teacher. She had been one of the top students in her year and was well respected by her colleagues. Charlie was also proud of Stephanie’s son who was nine. He knew she couldn’t have more children and was therefore devoted to the boy. Like her mum, Stephanie’s marriage wasn’t especially happy or secure but she still put all she had into it, and he admired her for that.

These were all the things Charlie wanted me to tell Stephanie. But, to be truthful, she didn’t want to hear them. Her parents had finally separated when she was 12, and the man she believed to be her dad had died eight months previously. When I first started to talk about ‘her dad’, she was delighted. But the moment I said his name, she lost interest. As things went on, I decided it might be better to stop talking about Charlie. I’m sure you can appreciate why. This was a delicate situation and I wasn’t entirely clear about it myself.

When Stephanie left, I felt an immense sense of relief, but this was followed by a deep feeling of sadness. I could sense that Charlie was still with me and I felt he was saying, ‘You’ve failed me. I thought this was my chance. I’ve waited years for this, watching that girl. She’s mine you know.’ And this upset me. I don’t like to think I’ve let anyone down, especially those spirits who have come along to see me with a special purpose in mind. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie,’ I had to say in this instance, ‘But you only gave me half a story.’

I don’t know whether this reproach had anything to do with it but a week or so later I had a letter from Stephanie. She hadn’t felt able to phone me. It would, she said, have been too traumatic. But she wanted to make another appointment because there were things she had to discuss.

Soon after, Stephanie came back to my office and I was fairly mesmerized. After she’d left me the first time, she had gone to see her mum and asked her outright who Charlie was. At first, her mum was unwilling to tell her, which was hardly surprising as it was still a painful subject for her. But later she told Stephanie everything, about her unhappy marriage and how she had met Charlie. It had been a brief affair. Charlie had wanted Stephanie’s mum to leave her husband, but as she had a son of three – Stephanie’s half-brother – she wouldn’t leave.

It wasn’t until after they parted that Stephanie’s mum found out she was pregnant. There was nothing else she could do, she felt, but stay as she was. In those days, it didn’t do to admit you had been having an affair.

Charlie had been killed in a road accident when Stephanie was a year old. But Stephanie’s mum had never forgotten him. In many ways, her marriage ended then, but she kept things going till Stephanie was 12.

There were so many things Stephanie wanted to say to her mum. But she knew at this stage that she couldn’t. She had no idea how she would get used to the idea of this other father, but somehow so many things from her childhood now made sense, including the fact that the man she thought of as her dad never had any real interest in her. ‘I just thought he didn’t love me. Now I see why,’ she wrote.

I never heard from Charlie again, but I know with absolute certainty that his spirit would have been with us that day, listening and feeling proud of his daughter, and smiling with such fondness.

Not One but Two!

As you know by now, my office often plays host to a spirit during readings, but there have been occasions when more than one has come along. In fact, I can think of several instances, but the one I rather liked was the story of Elma and Elaine, two sisters, both dead, who liked to keep an eye on their niece. Her name was Sophie and she had come to me for a reading.

Elma and Elaine had obviously liked to party, but as that was during the 1920s, their idea of a dance was quite different from ours. But they were unabashed about doing it. Elma even showed me some of the steps of the charleston! They were delightful ladies and had had sad lives, but that didn’t stop them looking out for their niece. What was more, she knew they did. When she came in for a consultation, she told me she’d probably brought visitors with her. And sure enough, within about five minutes, I was aware of the almost overwhelming presences of these ladies. ‘They’re supposed to be my old aunts,’ Sophie said. ‘But they don’t behave very much like it!’

The strange thing was that although it was Sophie who had come for the reading – and she was perfectly open in talking about her aunts – they were the ones who wanted to speak to me. Elma in particular. She’d had an unhappy love affair, just after the First World War, and been forced into marriage with a much older man she didn’t love, who was cruel to her. There had been a baby with her lover, whom she had also been forced to give up. It was something Sophie’s mum didn’t know because she had only been a small child at the time, and Elma had never spoken about it. She wanted Sophie to know this, however. She had never been able to be with her son or have other children, so that was why Sophie was so important to her and why she spent so much time hanging around her.

Sophie didn’t dispute this story. She had always felt there was a secret unhappiness about her aunt Elma. Sophie shed quite a few tears at her story because she had always been fond of her. When Sophie was a little girl, Aunt Elma had been a ‘great pal’. Her sense of fun was immense, and even as an old lady she had been young at heart.

Elaine, on the other hand, had never married, and she was honest about the fact that she was what at that time was known as ‘simple’. Her life had been one of drudgery and she had looked after her mum. But she had adored Elma, and that was why she wanted only to be where her sister was. The pride she had in Sophie was clear – if for no other reason than that Sophie had done the things in her life Elaine would have liked to do. She had married and had children, then gone on to train at college. If only Elaine could have had these chances, but she hadn’t.

But what she wanted Sophie to know was that, no matter how she had been viewed in life, she was entirely different now. In fact, she went as far as to say she had gone to college with Sophie and trained too!

‘I can believe it!’ said Sophie.

The ladies didn’t stay. They understood Sophie’s need to discuss some things that were private, and at that point they vanished. Sophie wasn’t worried. She knew that when she arrived home they’d probably be waiting for her and that they’d make their presence felt by switching the kettle on for her when she got in.

I could believe this too. These were fascinating ladies, with the right modicum of respect for their charge. It’s not always true of all spirits, but Elma and Elaine were certainly in a class of their own.

The Mum who Wanted to be Remembered

Let’s face it, isn’t that what most people want? To be remembered? To be known and appreciated by their loved ones? Well, spirits are no exception. Their longings are usually very much the same, only theirs have the added poignancy that they’re gone, often leaving loved ones behind in terrible situations.

When Yvonne came to see me, I thought that such a spirit had to be connected with her. I instantly had a sense of the most beautiful young woman with her – a really refined girl, with naturally curly auburn hair and sparkling green eyes that seemed to shine. She had such a calm, quiet aura about her and was determined to follow Yvonne in.

Before I began the reading, I felt I just had to know who this woman was. Her presence was so clear to me, I actually thought Yvonne herself must be aware of it. But she wasn’t. When I told her what I could see, she looked surprised. No, she hadn’t lost her mum, or an aunt, or sister, or anyone that close to her. But as I described the lady, and how exceptionally pretty she was, Yvonne did become thoughtful. She opened her handbag and fished in it for a moment or so. Then she produced a photograph. It was of a very handsome young man. The hair was dark but the eyes were entirely the same as the woman’s.

‘That’s Pete, my boyfriend,’ Yvonne said. ‘Does he look like the woman?’

It turned out that Pete’s mum had died when he was only two and he had never really known her, but he had been told about how stunning she was to look at. He had always longed to know her and regretted never having the chance. His dad had remarried and he was close to his stepmum. It was just that he wished he had known more about his real mum, so I was glad of this opportunity to tell Yvonne some things about her.

In particular, she had been very musical. She also suffered from a circulatory problem which meant her hands were always cold, no matter how many clothes she heaped on. As I relayed this to Yvonne, she smiled. This was one of the few things Pete knew about his mum.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘She’s come for another purpose. You’re going to have a baby before the year is out and she wants you to know everything will be fine.’ This was especially poignant because Pete’s mum had died following complications when she was giving birth to Pete’s sister.

Yvonne was surprised by this. I don’t think she believed me, or wanted to at that stage! But Pete’s mum was adamant. She went on to say that the baby would be a girl, and that she wanted Pete and Yvonne to get married, although she understood that Yvonne was waiting for a divorce.

As things turned out, Pete’s mum was surprisingly accurate about these things. I hadn’t even begun to read Yvonne’s cards and didn’t know that this was the situation. But Yvonne soon confessed that it was true.

After the reading, Yvonne got back in touch. It was to say that she had talked to Pete and, although at first he had been sceptical, the woman I had described was his mum. He was going to send me a copy of a photograph he had of her with her lovely auburn hair. And he did. In it she was exactly as she came over. And I still keep it to this day to remind me of that special session.

Yvonne did become pregnant and she and Pete had a little girl, who was later a bridesmaid at their wedding! So far as I know, they’re still happy. Pete’s mum certainly never said they wouldn’t be. And her predictions were absolutely a hundred per cent correct. In some ways, though, I’m glad she’s a spirit. She might put me out of business otherwise!

TWO

Picture the Scene: My Own Ghostly Encounters

This is my favourite chapter. Some would say that’s because it involves talking about myself – and they are probably right. Here I describe experiences I have had personally. My diverse encounters range from seeing the ghosts of close family members to famous ghosts, such as Robert the Bruce, while at a haunted castle or while investigating a reported sighting. I try to convey these experiences vividly to you by describing what happened to me, what I saw and what I felt at the time.

The German Soldiers

A few years ago I made a trip to Neilston to visit my cousin and admire her new home. The house itself impressed me and, of course, she was as proud as Punch. We began walking towards the back garden, out through a large patio door. At first it was the size of the garden which struck me, but then, within a matter of seconds, another scene began to unfold in front of me.

I was amazed to see a whole troop of German soldiers. No one else could see them but they were so clear to me. To this day I cannot explain how I knew they were Germans – I simply knew they were. I also knew they were soldiers from the Second World War.

They seemed jovial and were happily chatting away with one another. I noticed they were busy making something, which looked quite intricate to me. I couldn’t see what it was but I could see them as clearly as the ‘real’ folk around me.

I told my cousin about this – she knows what I’m like and is never sceptical or unsure of anything I say anymore. She told me she would go to the local library the following day and find out if there was any explanation for this. Why were there so many soldiers here, all looking pretty relaxed and far from confrontational?

So intrigued was I and so desperate for an answer that I mentioned it in my column in the Sun newspaper. I invited readers to write to me with any explanation, if there was one, for what I had seen.

A few days later, my postbag was full. Apparently, although not held as prisoners, several German soldiers were punished and removed from war duties and placed in a farm behind the Neilston mill – a hessian mill. The soldiers were treated very humanely and fairly and were given duties such as making hessian slippers. If any of them misbehaved, they were moved on to a much less informal destination where I believe they weren’t treated with such privilege.

Most of them, however, were well behaved and caused the Neilston natives no concern at all. In fact, many became friends and some actually stayed on after the war and married local girls.

Indeed, one of the letters I received was from a reader in his 70s – a German. He had known many of the men serving in that area and was one of many who never returned to Germany.

I also received letters from locals who remembered the German soldiers, and a few letters from readers who were the children of local women and their German husbands.

I found out that most of the soldiers had now passed away but they must surely have remembered their war days and the town of Neilston with fondness. After all, it is Neilston they come back to, apparently preferring it to their own home towns.

Every time I visit my cousin, I make a point of going to the patio door and standing, just watching the German soldiers again. It never fails to amaze me each and every time.

My Captain

My own cottage is haunted by the spirit of the captain of a ship, which was once anchored out in the river Tay – the Mars Ship.

For many years, the familiar cry ‘Behave yoursel’ or ye’ll get sent tae Mars’ was the scourge of the male youth of Dundee. In this case, Mars was not a planet but a training ship that sat directly outside my house, docked on the river Tay. The ship was mainly used to house juvenile delinquents but I have subsequently found out it was also used for orphaned boys.

It has long since gone – many decades ago – but it is remembered still by the natives, its legend passing through the generations.

I’ll talk some more about the ship, its captain and its occupants later, but at this point I want to describe the first time I saw him. I wasn’t the first to see him – a couple of my clients saw him, months apart, and yet described where he was standing, what he was wearing and his physical appearance in the exact same words.

I had been eager to meet him but my first encounter was pretty scary. I’m fairly used to ghosts, as you can gather, but I have to be in the correct frame of mind, otherwise I jump out my skin just like everyone else. Well, the first time I saw him, that’s exactly what I did – I nearly jumped the height of myself with fright!

My office is directly opposite my bedroom. As I often do, I had been burning the midnight oil in my office. When I’d finished for the night, I began to walk from my office across to my bedroom. The hallway was in darkness and the only light came from the third-floor landing. Through the huge bay windows up there, a little light shone from the outside sensor light. It was by no means bright and yet, as I looked up, I saw the captain in all his glory, down to the clothes he was wearing and even the pockmarks he had on his face.

My house has three floors, and at the top is an open-plan, converted attic. The view from there is stunning. Since moving here, I’ve pet-named this area the ‘Mars attic’. The captain once owned my 300-year-old cottage, and legend has it that he had the huge bay window made especially so that he could sit and watch his boat – and, more importantly, those on board!

That night, I was not in a psychic frame of mind. I had been working on something entirely different in my office, so ghosts were the furthest thing from my mind. I blame this for my reaction, which was one of terror. I never made it as far as the bedroom for I turned on my heels back to my office. Once there, I found myself beginning to type frantically.

I wrote about what I had just seen, trying to conjure up the scene I had witnessed, and then sent it to my editor at the Sun. I just typed and typed and typed. I was acutely cold and, for some time, felt too afraid to leave my office.

I deliberately wasted no time sending the story to my editor as I felt it was important not to dwell on the experience and risk changing it. I wanted the readers to feel what I felt and to sense what I had sensed. Interfering with what I had written, after the event, would have spoiled this aim entirely.

The following Friday, the article duly appeared. It did make interesting reading and I received many phone calls about it. One of those phone calls was a little bit special, however. When I listened to what I was being told, even I had shivers down my spine.

The caller was a client whom I’d seen maybe twice or three times over the years. We’d had a meeting a few weeks prior to the article. The reason Isobel was calling was to tell me, almost hysterically, what had happened to her.

I use the Mars attic as a waiting area for my clients. It allows them the peaceful view of the river, and many admit it calms their nerves while waiting for their allocated appointment time.

Isobel was one such client. I was running approximately 30 minutes behind schedule that day and, as she waited, she sat gazing at the water. Her deep thoughts were disturbed by the footsteps of someone coming up the stairs. She automatically turned to look and was met by a man. The man sat down beside Isobel and they chatted for 10 minutes or so. They spoke mainly about the water, the weather, the view – general small talk. Isobel at this stage thought nothing of the situation she found herself in. The man was quiet but then Isobel was a talkative type.

Isobel knew I had an old friend, Bill, who stayed with us and looked after Athena (my little girl). She assumed Athena was having a nap and that Bill had come upstairs for some relaxation until she woke.

The only thing she found strange was the way he was dressed. She recalls he was very smartly dressed, way over the top for not only that time of day but also for the climate. However, she merely made small talk and, shortly afterwards, he took his leave.

Isobel read my article that morning and, in her own words, ‘didn’t know whether to laugh or cry’ or whether to call me or not. She just didn’t know what to do. But in the end, she decided to call my office. And I’m so glad she did.

The man, she told me, fitted the description of the captain in my article. He in no way resembled Bill. In retrospect, a lot of what she found strange about him now seemed to make sense – the way he was dressed, the way she did most of the talking while he gazed impassively out at the river. Although there was no ‘disappearing into thin air’, she also remembers thinking how quickly he descended the flight of stairs. As he took his leave, she turned to look the other way but looked back towards the stairs quickly – only to find he was gone.

Isobel thought so little of this at the time, assuming that the man she’d had a 10-minute conversation with was alive and well, that she never bothered to mention it to me. It was only after reading the article on the captain that she put two and two together.

Isobel has no doubts that she spoke to the spirit of the captain of the Mars ship that day. Nor do I. The captain is still here and makes his presence known from time to time. Since that night, however, I have never felt afraid of him.

The Iron Mask

A Radio Clyde programme led me to investigate the following sightings. The setting was the very picturesque village of Kirk O’Shotts, a tiny place just off the M8 motorway between Glasgow and Edinburgh.

One listener called the show to tell of a frightening experience she had just encountered while driving home along the Canthill Road near Shotts prison. This struck a chord with many listeners who phoned to say that they had also experienced something strange at that exact same spot.

The story I was told was vague. Apparently, ‘something’ had jumped out into the path of moving cars as if trying to commit suicide. This was so real that every motorist who experienced this stopped their car, terrified they had killed a pedestrian.

Each one checked their car, checked the road, looked behind walls and hedges – all to no avail. No one could find any explanation for what could possibly have caused the almighty thud. Some were afraid; some put it down to their imagination … until that phone call to Radio Clyde. Suspicion and curiosity increased and so I was called in to investigate.

Arriving at the scene, I was overwhelmed by the prettiness of the area and its stunning 15th-century kirk. Kirk O’Shotts is only minutes from both large cities, yet its beautiful setting could equally be 100 miles from anywhere. The kirk is rumoured to be one of the most famous in Scotland. Locals claim it was the very spot where a giant of a man, Bertram Shotts, fell to his death after an altercation with one William Muirhead.

Some people say they have seen a ghost here. They all tell the same story of a shadowy figure wearing a cape and a carriage hat. Many have their own opinions and beliefs on who this man was. When I visited the area, I found some very interesting goings-on indeed, none of which bore any resemblance to the other guesses made by those who had seen the ghost.

I met with my colleague Matt, and together we began to walk slowly around the kirk itself, and then onto the road where the incident repeatedly occurred. We also strolled around the graveyard and, very quickly, I began to see and feel things. Matt started scribbling down every word I uttered, and although at the time it didn’t make any sense to either of us, he continued to write.

Somewhat cautiously, I began to voice the feelings I had and the words I was hearing. History was never one of my favourite subjects at school, so what was coming over to me made very little sense. My first impression was that the spirit wasn’t wearing a hat as those who’d previously seen him had suggested. No, this was no hat. What I was clearly seeing was a mask, the kind worn by an executioner!

Other locals speculate that the ghost is a young man called William Smith, a covenanter who was run down by the Duke of Monmouth’s horses before being stabbed to death. It is my belief, however, that the Canthill ghost is the duke himself, and he wants to beg pardon of ‘oor Wullie’, hence his ghastly act of chucking himself under cars.

I merely voiced names during the investigation – to be honest, hearing names such as Charles II and James II meant nothing to me. I hadn’t a clue what the connection was. And as for the Duke of Monmouth, I’d never heard of him. However, such is my experience that I never hold back what I’m hearing or seeing. I blurt it out and then hope for the best. Everything is then pieced together by researchers.

I had a strong feeling the duke was angry with Charles II. In fact, I experienced hatred coming from the duke. I was so puzzled. It was as if the duke was doing his best to rebel against everything the king demanded. I stunned myself when I uttered the words, ‘They are father and son!’ This was not something I had expected, given the rivalry between them.

I was later to learn that the Duke of Monmouth was indeed the son of Charles II, but he was an illegitimate son who sought love and approval from his father. But this was not to be, so he rebelled. The fact was that Charles II, a staunch Catholic, was in constant battle with his Protestant son.

Very suddenly, I then had the most severe pain in my head and neck. I heard someone whisper the words ‘One, two, three, four!’ What on earth was I being told? Then I saw exactly what was happening. The duke was being beheaded.

The Duke of Monmouth won many battles and at one time was hugely popular. However, shortly after his father died, James II, brother of Charles, took over the crown. Formerly the Duke of York, James II detested his nephew. The duke was executed for treason against his uncle. His head was covered in a black mask. Legend has it that he was ordered to wear a mask so that James II would not see his nephew’s face as he died.

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