When psychic abilities start to come online, often the first multidimensional beings encountered are ghosts. The paranormal community has a multitude of definitions of what makes a ghost, spirit or haunt, but for the purposes of this article: ghosts are the spirits of deceased humans who are earthbound, or “stuck.”
“New” psychics, or those who are just awakening to their abilities, are often mired in old paradigm thinking patterns of fear and reactivity because the new, incoming information can be frightening. These heavier, lower vibration emotions act to attract lower vibratory beings. Ghosts, by their nature, are lower vibration. They have unfinished business, or were victims of trauma, or…
You get the idea. Ghosts are here because they can’t move on to their next realm. Psychics who can “see” them attract them like candy. Because let’s face it, if you’re dead, still here on earth, but no one can see you, or hear you – when you find someone who reacts to your presence it’s Game On. You’re going to want them to recognize you, acknowledge you and you’ll do whatever you can to get that reaction.
I’ve been sensitive to spirits and other beings since I was a kid. I went through the stages of fear and reactivity, some interactions were terrifying. I gradually learned to move beyond that through regular practice and training. Ghosts are just people without bodies. The ones who are stuck are usually very close to their living personality and appearance. Because becoming a ghost is typically not pleasant, these are beings in need of help. My particular flavor of psychic abilities is uniquely attuned to helping release them.
It is at it’s core a sacred thing. Compassion is key when dealing with beings who can and do lash out because they are frightened and traumatized. But that doesn’t mean you leave yourself unprotected.
I had this encounter just last week:
I was doing some off-leash training in the yard with my dog. Xander and I saw him at the same time. Uncharacteristically, Xander calmed the second I told him to, giving only a small cough of warning at the dude wandering outside the fence instead of his usual bounding run and full-throated bark. Even more miraculously, he stayed in a perfect heel while I walked around the yard.
Totally un-Xander-like. It didn’t make sense until just a few minutes later.
This guy had “homeless” written all over. He was just this side of staggering and muttering to himself. Baggy, dirty clothes, and a hat, all askew on his skinny body completed the picture. He meandered in a general westerly direction toward the main road. His path should’ve taken him past the house but he doubled back on his path a few times, crisscrossing the street.
I didn’t stare, but I kept my eye on him. He’d been heading sorta toward the gate when I came out of the house with Xander, but cut away when he saw us. I also saw him notice Xander stop in his tracks at my command.
But now, even though he’d disappeared behind the screening bushes I could still hear him, which meant so could Xander. Who was acting like he wasn’t even there anymore.
Still didn’t click for me, my brain was in trainer mode, not psychopomp mode.
So I kept my eye and awareness on this guy, but subtly. On the outside I was just working a training session with my dog. He was crossing the street again, heading away. I worked a tight turn with Xander, spinning in place, looked up…
Like, I wasn’t not-looking for that long. He did not have time to disappear down the road in the direction he was heading. The only way for him to disappear would be if he’d ducked back down behind those screening bushes.
I looked. Not there.
But…then…I got that nudge and looked for him clairvoyantly.
Yep. Dead guy. A poor wandering lost spirit who’d ended up on my doorstep. It happened a lot. Seriously.
I live down the street from a funeral home. I work hard to keep my home very energetically clean. Dog and cat hair – meh, I can live with it. Icky energy, not so much.
I tapped his shoulder, energy-wise, and talked to him telepathically.
His answer was a mutter sprinkled with obscenities as he circled and wandered in the street. He did not like that I could see him, that I talked to him, but mostly he hated that he was dead. He was so angry about it.
He really didn’t want to accept he was dead.
“I was gonna break inna you house.” I heard that clear enough. He looked me up and down, leering now. It’s creepy enough when a live guy does it, when the don’t-know-they’re-dead give you the eye, it’s not just creepy, it’s sad.
I wasn’t seeing or hearing him with my physical eyes anymore, this was all mental, telepathic contact at this point. He really didn’t like that and was being hostile AF.
“Look at you. Mm mm, damn, I’d like-a tear inna that.” Still a charmer in death.
“I bet the ladies all loved you with those lines.” I told him. He blinked. Live people don’t talk back to him. He hadn’t really expected me to hear him. He’d been mostly ignored in life, it was only a small step to being completely ignored in death.
He’d been a junkie, living on the streets, and it had killed him. Super common here in Seattle. I could see it, I knew it. And the scary images he threw at me, trying to frighten me confirmed it.
I still had Xander at my side, but I’d shifted into psychopomp mode, which always makes him a little uncomfortable. I looked at the dead guy and told him I was going to take my dog inside.
“You wait, right there.” I drew a line with some energy, pulling him just a little toward my gate that had bells dangling on it. He followed. Not entirely willingly, because, live people don’t talk to him, or order him around. He didn’t want to think he was dead, but he’d got very used to being invisible to people. Even when he was alive. A white lady talking to him didn’t make sense. Even as he reached the gate, he balked.
“Why shoul’ I do wha’ you say? I don’ wanna.”
Then, we had a little – exchange.
Dead people can do some scary tricks. It’s why there’s hauntings, and paranormal investigators. But dead people can also fuck with your mind, and one of the easiest things for them to do is put pictures, or feelings in your head. Because if you’re not aware of what they’re doing, you’ll think it’s you.
He tried to convince me he was something bigger and more dangerous than he really was. He told me he was a demon. I called his bluff, which always deflates them so.
I called in my Guardians, and they did what Guardians do: they protected – me and him. Because no matter who he had been in life, or what he’d done, he was a being in pain. Beings in pain aren’t always rational. I asked my Guardians to help “hold” him next to the gate. I told the dead guy, “Look, I’m just going to take my dog into the house.” This diverted him, and he mumbled about how much he didn’t like dogs, and my white dog especially. I interrupted him, which earned me another startled, pissed-off look.
“Right, yeah. Look, just wait here, this’ll only take him a minute and I’ll be right back.”
“Why woul’ I do what you say?”
“Because I want to help you get home.” When I said “home” I projected love. Acceptance. Family. The real deal, not whatever shitty hand he had been dealt here on Earth. And I touched his energy with that love. Just a touch, but he felt it. And quieted.
“Look, if you think I’m not being fast enough, ring the bells, and I’ll know you’re getting anxious.”
He had a thoughtful look on his face now, and some of that anger and vileness had drained away.
I took Xander in, and regrouped. Grounded. Checked my space. Checked back in with my Higher Self. Then, I heard it.
The bells on the gate. No wind. No one there.
I went back outside, and asked for the psychopomp beings to come help this guy home. It’s so beautiful when they see home, and realize they aren’t damned, aren’t hated. That they are just, loved. He crossed, but there was more. I watched as a great torrent of energy streamed from where he’d stood, into the doorway. I asked, and was told, “it’s the energetic residue of his actions on Earth. Hold the doorway, and make sure it all crosses. It will clear the space and fully release him.”
So I held. It ran from a river, to a stream, to a trickle, to the last bits evaporating from my driveway. The psychopomp being nodded, and turned, disappearing as the doorway closed with a click.
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