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