Went to a little church. It was a… just a… non-sectarian sort of thing.
All right. What are some Irish words? What are some Irish words?
Oh… oh… you want to know. Oh, there’s a colleen ’n’ a… oh… I try to think of the word for the ghost…. What do you call a ghost? Oh, I think… mother socks… oh. There’s a… oh… a brate!
[After “colleen”—and before “brate”—she spoke another word. But the tape recorder does not play back this one word clearly enough to transcribe. The “mother socks,” judging from the manner in which she used it, would appear to be a sort of oath which she muttered in exasperation while trying to think of more words.]
What’s that word?
Brate.
What does that mean?
Aw, that’s a… little cup… that you drink out of, ’n’ you wish on it. Very… very Irish, you know. Just something we think about all the time… wish on it. Drink and just wish on a brate…, Oh, I can’t think.
Are there any prayers… Irish prayers… with Irish words?
We always say the prayers from the Bible just… at our house.
Can you say any of them now, say any one prayer now? Say the prayer we say before our meal:
Bless this house in all the weather.
Keep it gay in springy heather.
Bless the children, bless the food.
Keep us happy, bright and good.
That’s before we eat.
All right. Now is there anything else that you can tell us about Irish customs, customs or traditions in Ireland, that you would like to tell us about? Have you ever been to a wake?
Oh yes, been to the wake before the funeral. Oh, it was… it was with Brian, ’n’ his uncle ’n’… they all stay up… and they’re all very unhappy. It’s always the day before, you see. It’s always the day before they take ’em to ditch them… in the grounds, and they all sit around and weep and drink tea, and everybody’s unhappy. Then the next day they ditch them.
What do you mean, ditch them?
Puts ’em in the ground… for good.
[Here again the brogue was especially distinct.]
I see. Are there any other Irish customs or traditions that you can tell us about?
Oh… dance when you’re married.
What do they call it?
Oh, it’s just an Irish jig thing; you dance and they put money in your pockets… to buy… it’s a party and everybody gives their money and that way you have a gift, you see. It’s just people that wouldn’t send you other gifts.
All right. Is there anything else at all that you’d like to tell us about Ireland?
It’s beautiful.
All right. Rest and relax. Rest and relax. Clear your mind completely. Go even farther back. Go back again to that time when you were a little girl in Ireland, and go right on back, past that, beyond that, go on back, back, back, even beyond that. You’re going back into another lifetime before the one in Ireland. Going back, back, still farther back, still farther back, still farther back, and oddly enough, strangely enough, some scene will come into your mind. When I talk to you next, you’ll remember a scene in which you were included. Although you may not look the same, youll know that it will be you, and youll be able to tell me all about it. Now you think for a few moments, and you’ll be surprised that a scene will just pop into your head. Now, I’ll talk to you again in a little while.
[I then gave her about three or four minutes to think. I don’t know whether she really needed this intermission. But I did. All this time I had been holding the small microphone, occasionally transferring it from one hand to another, near Ruth’s lips. Besides, the impact of the whole thing was beginning to reach me.]
Now there is some scene that you remember. There is some scene that you remember. Tell me about it. Tell me about it.
Dying… just a little baby.
Dying?
Uh-huh.
Who is dying?
Me.
Where are you? Do you have any idea?
It’s in a house, and my head… sickness.
What country, do you know?
It’s… America.
Do you know your name?
No.
Do you know how old you are?
Just a baby… a little baby.
What is your mother’s name?
Uh… Vera.
What is your father’s name?
John.
What is the last name?
Jamieson.
[I have no idea as to the correct spelling; this is just a guess.]
What state do you live in?
… New Amsterdam.
Do you happen to know what year it is?
No.
But you know you’re in America?
Yes.
How do you know?
It was… knew I was.
And did you die?
Yes.
All right. Now clear your mind. Clear your mind and forget about that. That will not bother you, and you’ll go still farther back. You will go still farther back, back, back, back, back, and you will see another scene. And as soon as you see another scene, as soon as you see another scene, you can tell me about it.
[No answer.]
Do you see another scene?
No… no.
Nothing comes into your head?
No.
All right, let’s go back to the time you were in Ireland. Do you see yourself again in Ireland and Cork? Yes. All right, what is your name? Bridey. What is your last name? Murphy. What is the name of the man you married? Brian. Brian what? MacCarthy.
[She was practically spitting out these answers, as though she was a little annoyed at my repeating these old questions.]
All right. Now see yourself in that lifetime, and see yourself up to the time of your death. And tell me, tell me as an observer so that it won’t disturb you, tell me how you died.
Fell down… fell down on the stairs, and… seems I broke some bones in my hip too, and I was a terrible burden.
Were you old?
Sixty-six.
[The first part of the above answer she gave quickly, as though she was well aware that she had died in her sixties. But the “six” came more slowly, indicating that there was a little more difficulty in remembering her exact age.]
How did you finally die?
Oh, just sort of… withered away.
You didn’t want to live?
No… I was such a burden. Had to be carried about.
Was Brian still alive?
Yes… he was there. Did he take good care of you?
Yes. He was so tired all the time, though.
He was?
Yes.
In what city were you living when you died?
Belfast.
Do you remember the day you died?
Uh-huh. ’Twas on a Sunday.
And you remember it?
Yes, Brian was to church, and it upset him terribly that he wasn’t there. He left me, deserted me. But he didn’t think I was going that fast. A lady came to stay with me so he could go to church… and I died.
[This answer brought about a wholly unexpected turn in the questioning. It had never even occurred to me that I might explore her memories as to what took place after her death. But now at least some probing in that direction was necessitated, I felt, by the comment that Bridey had just made.
She had said, “Brian was to church, and it upset him terribly that he wasn’t there.” This statement puzzled me. If Brian had not been present at the scene of her death—if he had been in church—then how could Bridey have known that he was “upset” to learn that she had died during his absence?
There was only one possibility. If Bridey had somehow been conscious of what took place after her death, then her comment would be understandable. I decided, therefore, to pursue this point.]
How old were you?
I was sixty-six.
Were you in pain when you died?
No, just tir
ed.
I see, just tired. You wanted to die?
Yes.
Did you believe that you would live after death?
Yes.
Can you tell us what happened after your death? Can you tell us what happened after you died?
I didn’t do… like Father John said. I didn’t go to purgatory!
[In looking back this answer seems particularly meaningful. Instead of replying with a listing of her activities—or any sort of statement about what she did—Bridey instantly charged back with an emotional outburst, declaring what she did not do!
It was as though, contend several of those who listened to the tape recording, Bridey had been particularly concerned with this purgatory problem. It is possible, the listeners speculate, that she had been developing considerable apprehension over the purgatory question as she lay on her deathbed. Hence the reaction to her pent-up anxiety, “I didn’t do like Father John said. I didn’t go to purgatory!”]2
Where did you go?
I stayed right in that house… until John died.
And could you see John all that time?
Uh-huh.
Was Father John dead too?
Oh, he died. … I saw him. I saw him when he died.
And then you talked to him?
Yes.
I see. Well, when Brian died did he join you?
No….
He didn’t?
No. Didn’t see… watched him… lots of times until Father John died, then I left the house.
Oh, I see. When Father John died, you left the house?
Yes.
But you stayed in the house until Father John died?
Yes, he came to visit Brian, and I stayed.
All right. When you left the house, where did you go?… Uh… I went… home to Cork… and I… saw my… brother.
Which brother?
Duncan. And he was still alive!… And so old!
[Indeed, Duncan would have been old, probably in his seventies. And since Bridey likely had not seen him for many years—she had been living in Belfast—it is logical that her first reaction would have been one of surprise over the change which had taken place in Duncan.]
He was still alive?
Yes.
And you stayed in the house there?
Yes, I stayed in Duncan’s house.
Did you ever let Duncan know that you were there?
No, he wouldn’t… he wouldn’t answer me.
How did you try to speak to him?
I would… I would stay there by the bed and talk, and he would never see me.
He would never see you. Well, did he finally die?
Yes, he died.
And then did he join you?
No. There were lots of people there I didn’t know.
Lots of people you didn’t know?
Yes, but I didn’t see everybody I knew. Father John I saw!… ’n’ I saw my little brother that died too.
[I had almost forgotten about Bridey’s little brother, who had died when he was “just a baby.”]
Oh, you saw him?
Yes.
Did he talk to you?
Yes, he talked to me, but he didn’t know, I had to tell him I knew who he was.
[Presumably the baby would not have recognized this sixty-six-year-old woman; she had to tell him who she was. On the other hand, Bridey recognized him at once; apparently he still looked the same.]
Oh, he didn’t know?
No.
Then did he recognize you?
Yes, he said he just remembered me, some things about me, but he didn’t remember anything about my mother or the house or… He remembered some things about Duncan too: Duncan would push him off the little cradle side and tip it over, and he would fall. And he remembered some things.
What was it like? Did you like where you were?
Yes.
Was it better than your life on earth?
No.
It wasn’t?
No, it wasn’t full enough. It wasn’t… just… couldn’t do all the things… couldn’t accomplish anything and… couldn’t talk to anybody very long. They’d go away… didn’t stay very long.
[Here Bridey’s voice became plaintive, almost pained. It is at this point that numerous listeners—to the tape recording-have suggested that Bridey might well have been in purgatory, after all, without even having realized it]
Did you ever have any pain?
No.
No pain. I see. Did you ever have to eat anything?
No.
You never had to eat?
No, never ate, never sleep, never sleep… never get tired there.
Well, tell me how you finally left that world.
Oh… I… left there and I was… born… and I lived in America again. I was born in Iowa… I…
In Iowa?
Yes… I was…
[Here she was referring to her birth in 1923, in Iowa.]
Do you remember how you became born again, do you remember how it was possible for you to be born again? Tell us about that.
I was… oh, I was just… I don’t know how it happens, but I just remember that suddenly I wasn’t… just in a… just a state… then I was a baby.
Did anybody select the body that you inhabited? Did anybody select the body?
I don’t know about that.
How did you know what body, how did you know what country to go to, how did you know all those things? Who took care of all those details?
Don’t know. … It just seems like it just happens… and you just don’t remember and… you remember most things and then… all of a sudden… I remember just being a baby again.
[Bridey was never able to relate the details of the rebirth process—And I have had other interesting subjects since Bridey, but none have thrown any light on this one issue. Other investigators, though, claim somewhat better results.]
Then you remember that you died when you were little…. No… not when I was in Iowa.
[This was simply an effort purposely to trip the subject, something I have resorted to at various points throughout the series of sessions. It never worked; she always held her ground.]
Not when you were in Iowa?
No.
What did you do then?
I lived.
You did? And what did you do there?
Oh… I just lived there for one year.
What was your name?
Ruth.
Ruth what?
Ruth Mills [maiden name].
I see. I see. Then you must have lived in the spirit world a long time before that.
Um… oh… I don’t know.
In all that time you were never able to talk to anyone on earth?
No. Tried to.
Well, could any of the people in that spirit world, could any of the people in that spirit world talk to any of the people on the earth?
Don’t know.
You never saw it happen?
No…. Tried. Lots of people wanted to talk to people, but they just wouldn’t [listen].
I see. Now, tell me about this time you were a baby in New Amsterdam.
Yes.
That was before this lifetime, wasn’t it?
Yes.
Was it after the lifetime in Ireland or before the lifetime in Ireland?
It was before.
It was before the lifetime in Ireland.
Yes.
Then before you were Ruth Mills you were in Ireland. Is that right?
Yes.
You lived in Ireland, and you married Brian MacCarthy. You died when you were sixty-six years old, and then you spent a long time in the spirit world, and then you were born in America as Ruth Mills. Is that correct?
Yes. That’s right.
Let’s talk again about the time you were living in Ireland. Let’s talk again about the time you were living in Ireland and you got sick. You hurt yourself; you fell down and hurt yourself, and you finally died when you were sixty-six years old.
You remember that, don’t you?
[By now it should become painfully clear that I had no organized pattern for this first session. I skipped about from one phase of her history to another, abandoning one line of pursuit when I would temporarily run out of questions, and then returning again after I thought of more questions.]
Yes.
All right. I want you to tell me again what happened after your death. What happened after your death? Where did you go?
I stayed at my house… stayed there with Brian.
Could you watch them bury you? Could you watch them bury your body?
Yes, I watched them ditch my body.
You did?
Yes. They ditched it.
They ditched it? Did they have a wake for you?
No, because I’d told Brian I didn’t want anybody to be unhappy and… mourn… for me.
I see.
I was a burden and… I would be happy to just go to sleep. And you watched them ditch you?
Yes. I did.
Did you try to tell anybody that you were watching them?
No, I was tired.
You were still tired?
Yes.
I didn’t know that you had feelings in that life.
Not for long.
Not for long?
No.
Then there was no pain?
No pain.
And you didn’t have to eat?
No.
And you didn’t sleep?
No. No sleep.
How did you spend all of your time?
Oh… just… watching….
Did it seem like it was a long time, or did time mean any thing?
No… doesn’t mean anything.
You didn’t pay any attention to time?
No… doesn’t mean anything.
You didn’t pay any attention to time?
No… no night or no day… like you had it… Brian…
What did you say?
No night and day like Brian had it.
Did Brian get married again?
No. He wouldn’t.
[An interesting way of stating it. She did not answer that Brian didn’t marry again; she flatly replied that he wouldn’t—the sort of answer one might expect from a wife who was sure of her husband’s nature.]
The Search for Bridey Murphy Page 13