Messenger Between Worlds

by Kristy Robinett

  While we waited for the men to return, my sister and I took a walk in the surrounding woods but were stopped just a few feet from the cabin. Hanging from a branch of a large pine tree was a bloodied noose. We ran back to the house as the rest of the party gathered, loaded up the car, and left. From then on, that vacation was referred to as “The Ghost Cottage,” and my mom refused to discuss what she saw or how she saw it. The case was closed in her book.

  I believe my mom was actually quite gifted, but something in her past had frightened her. Her way of dealing it was to make the subject taboo, effectively shutting down the possibility of helping me with my gift. This gift was part of my fiber—as much as I sometimes begged for it to go away, there was no way to remove it, shut it down, or stop it.

  It was the Indian summer after our beach vacation. The house was stifling hot and my dad was at work. We sat on the folding chairs on the small front porch, hoping to catch some breeze. Both my mom and I held a glass of iced water, once in a while taking an ice cube and using it to cool us down.

  “Kristy, do you ever see anything good happening?” my mom asked, staring straight forward toward the street.

  I thought for a moment. “Just death. I mostly just see death,” I responded, holding back tears. I wanted to see happiness. I wanted to see marriages and births, but I mostly just saw death.

  “Me too,” my mom simply said. She got up and walked back into the house, leaving me to ponder what it all meant.

  [contents]

  four

  My Guardian

  My mom received a phone call on a warm August afternoon informing her that her father, my insightful and well-loved grandpa, had been rushed to the hospital. He had been found badly bruised and lying on the floor next to his bed, wallet next to him, but nothing taken. It was uncertain if he’d had a stroke or been beaten up. Being only seven years old, I was quickly shuttled over to our neighbors’ home, who we lovingly referred to as Uncle Bill and Aunt Ernie, while the family went to visit the man his friends called “Red.” That night, my mom told me that my grandpa kept asking for me. He said he had something very important to tell me. At that time, kids under the age of sixteen weren’t allowed in the intensive care unit, and since my grandpa was in awful shape and his face quite bruised and beaten, my mom told me that she didn’t think it was a good idea. She added that perhaps my grandfather was delusional because most of what he said didn’t make sense; however, she never expanded on that. I begged her to take me to see him, and, more than likely just to get me to stop insisting, she said she would think about it. Unfortunately, there would be no time to think it over as my grandfather passed away, leaving the whole family heartbroken. We did know, however, that his wife and two sons in heaven had to be excited to be reunited with him.

  I don’t recall seeing him in his casket, but I remember what happened at the cemetery as if it were yesterday.

  The gravesite was under a large pine tree next to the cemetery’s dirt road. As the mourners said their goodbyes, I could see a shadow of a man who resembled my grandfather standing a couple hundred feet away. He was leaning against the tree and smoking a cigarette, smiling at me. I wiped my tears away and slowly walked over to get a closer look. There was no doubt in my mind that the man standing in the shadows was my grandfather.

  Maybe he was alive! Maybe they were wrong and he hadn’t died and had just been released from the hospital! It had to be a mistake, right? He was standing right there. I was hugging him and I was wide awake. Maybe they were wrong.

  “I’m gone, Kristy,” he affirmed, as if sensing my question—aware of my hope, my wish. “But I wanted to talk to you, Kristy. I couldn’t leave without talking to you!”

  I gulped back tears, knowing that he really was dead, and although I was afraid, I was also excited to be able to see him just as he was when he was alive: solid.

  “I know, Kristy. I know about your gift because you and I have a lot in common. I just want to let you know that no matter what … ” He stopped, put his cigarette down to his side, and looked me in the eyes. “No matter what, you must not be afraid. You’re special, and I will always be there with you to help protect you.”

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  “Take care of your momma,” Grandpa added as he be-gan to walk toward his gravesite, only to dissipate into the landscape.

  I raced after his spirit, but he had already crossed.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell my mom that I saw Grand-pa; she was too busy with her own grieving. My brother and sister learned to attribute my spirit contact to my “imagination,” and I didn’t want to be mocked. So, what I did was stuff the message and, instead of being thrilled that someone knew my secret, other than my grandpa who had passed on, I was angry. Why was I left to deal with this curse alone? All I wanted to do was fit into the world and, as if it weren’t difficult enough being a kid, I was given this.

  This felt like an ugly birthmark that might be able to be masked with makeup but would still be there no matter what. I went into the closet, literally and figuratively. It was just too much to handle, but it didn’t mean that the angels, my guides, loved ones, and random spirits no longer bothered me. They did. But I made a deal that they couldn’t call on me unless it was something extremely important; otherwise they would have to wait until I went into the closet.

  From the very beginning, I was too sensitive and often called a crybaby. Because I was made fun of so much, I withdrew, attempting to find some solace away from others’ emotions. I tried to stay in the shadows as much as I could. I wasn’t mentioning the many spirits in the house, and decided that it would be best to go into the closet—literally and figuratively. I would go into the small white-slatted closet in my mom and dad’s bedroom and talk to the good spirits. Their bedroom was on the first floor, where there were always good spirits, but the second floor, where my bedroom was, well that was another story. And the basement … the basement was plain evil. I felt the safest place, and where I could peacefully speak with my angels and guides, was the closet.

  The tiny, white-slatted closet in my mom and dad’s bedroom was stuffed with my mom’s clothes (and boy, did she love clothes). The floor was storage for linens, and I fit perfectly on top of them. I’d close the closet door and allow the dead to come and speak to me. It was a bit like a confessional, I suppose. They’d tell me their stories and how they tried to help on this earth, and I’d listen and offer suggestions. They tried to reassure me that I was perfectly sane and had a special purpose, but I felt anything but special. I felt like a freak. Every time I got into that closet, I hoped and prayed that nobody would know what I was actually doing. Nobody ever did. I cried a lot in the closet, but it was a healing cry, because although I’d go in there feeling lonely, I came out feeling supported and loved. I always felt a sense of reassurance as I hid my sobs in my hands, hearing from my guides and angels that one day I would feel accepted and to just be patient.

  I was to start third grade just a day after my grandfather’s funeral. The teacher, Mr. Brauer, was rumored to be a tyrant. Not only was he a teacher, he was the choir director and organist for the church that was next to the school. I was petrified. My second-grade teacher had been a lovely lady who had seen my sensitive ways and nurtured them with hugs, patience, and love. But Mr. Brauer had a booming voice, swore in German, and had a reputation for pulling ears, smacking with rulers, and generally intimidating his students. I didn’t know what to expect, except the rumors that if you did a math problem wrong you would be beaten. If you looked at me the wrong way I would cry, so I was frightened.

  My mom didn’t have a driver’s license, so I would walk to school each day with her, and then back home. The entire walk on that first day of school, I cried. Every step that I took, my fears felt exaggerated.

  Prior to Grandpa’s death, if my mom wasn’t feeling well, and that was often, he would pick me up from school, and I would hop i
n the front seat. Back then you didn’t have to wear seat belts and there weren’t rules as to where the kids sat. I felt like a grownup sitting next to him in that big old car.

  “What did you learn today, Kristy?” he would ask me each time. My answer was always the same: “Nothing.”

  “Well, that’s a lot of money your parents are spending for you to learn nothing.”

  I would simply shrug.

  The realization that my grandpa wouldn’t ever pick me up again began to heighten my anxiety of the first day of school. Maybe I should have talked more to him instead of being snooty. Maybe I should’ve told him that the kids picked on me or that I was last to be chosen for gym class again because I was so scrawny. Or maybe I should’ve told him how I worried about my mom and dad. Or that I could see his family on the Other Side around him every time I was with him. It was when I was with him that I felt the closest to God. There were so many regrets.

  As we walked up to the side door of the school, the tears became uncontrollable sobs. On the first day of school, the teachers would come and meet their class by the entrance, and I was certainly making a spectacle of myself in front of the entire school and all of the parents, but once the tears started, I couldn’t stop them. Through my watery eyes I could see Mr. Brauer walking toward us. All I could do was look down at the ground, and I could see his polished brown leather shoes as they stopped in front of my mom. I prepared myself for the worst. I heard my mom explain that my grandpa had just died and tell him that I was a shy and sensitive child besides. He knelt down to my eye level, took my hand from my mom’s, and said, “C’mon Krissy, I’ll take good care of you,” and walked me into the school, to the classroom and right to my desk. He smiled (he rarely smiled), squeezed my hand in reassurance, and left me to put my supplies away. His gruff and ornery reputation was quickly replaced with the loving teddy bear that was his true nature. He continued to call me Krissy throughout the years and he helped give me a voice, a singing voice. He would often give me solos and he encouraged me to sign up for the talent shows. When there were auditions for the Broadway show Annie, he was the first one to tell me that I needed to take a chance and try out. And I did. This shy little girl stood in front of the Big Apple judges and danced and sang. And didn’t make it. But the point was that this was the beginning of discovering who I was, and another escape for me that was much more acceptable than talking to imaginary friends.

  [contents]

  five

  Kept Promises

  A few months after Grandpa’s passing, an incident validated his promise of protecting me and helped to change the course of my life.

  I was forced to tag along with my mom and dad to a local mall in Southfield, Michigan. Both of my parents loved to shop, something I’ve always detested, so when my mom wanted to go into a local clothing store, they allowed me to sit on a bench in front of the fountain with my constant companion, a book. A few minutes after they left, a man came up to me. He was quite tall and had a camera dangling around his neck.

  “You’re such a beautiful little girl,” he said with an English accent. “Mind if I take your picture? I only have a few pictures left, and I really want to get this film developed.”

  I nodded my head in agreement.

  “Just stand right there,” he instructed, and I simply stood up in front of where I had been sitting. He put the camera up to his eye and I heard a click.

  “Oh, look at how pretty your long blonde hair is,” he said, reaching out to touch it. “Let’s go outside and get some better photos; that way the sun can shine through your hair.”

  Sensing my anxiety, he gently took hold of my elbow. “It will only take a moment,” he said reassuringly, with a hard smile on his face.

  I was a polite little girl, and, although I sensed something was awry, the moments happened too quickly for a reaction. We walked a few steps toward the door when I smelled my grandpa—that heavy cigarette smell that permeated his skin. I heard grandpa yell “Run!” in my ear, and without hesitation I turned and bolted before the man could get a better grip on me. I ran as hard as I could, not looking back even once. I sensed the large hands of my grandfather pushing me gently away from the kidnapper. Out of breath, crying, and frightened, I found my parents at the checkout line. I tried to explain what happened, but by the time my dad returned to the mall area, the man with the camera was gone.

  Weeks after the attempted kidnapping, I begged my parents to allow me to get my hair cut. I made the excuse that I was tired of the long tangled locks, but subconsciously I saw my long hair as a threat to my life. After all, it was the hair that the man said he was drawn to. My hair was chopped off in a short bob that I detested, but I smiled through my tears and got my ears pierced so that I wouldn’t be mistaken for a boy.

  Years later I realized what had almost happened to me and recognized that my grandfather possibly saved my life. It was during that exact same year that a string of child killings gripped the community. Being so young, I was oblivious to the news story, but my neighborhood was on high alert to a serial killer. Was it the Oakland County Killer, a person who the new stations referred to as “The Babysitter” because each of his victims were fed and washed thoroughly before being dumped? Had it been him that attempted to lure me just as he did all four found victims? Or was my would-be abductor just another sick individual? I may never know, but what I do know is that my grandfather, in spirit, saved my life. Our loved ones stay with us, by our sides, when we call upon them or when we most need them. They are never far.

  Although I didn’t know the gravity of what could’ve happened, I was well aware that Grandpa was around me when I needed him most. That experience helped me become an advocate for missing and murdered children cases, using my gift to help in any way possible. And although Alto and Tallie were still around, it was as if they knew I needed the comfort of my grandpa.

  After the near miss, I moved on from Nancy Drew mysteries and became obsessed with true crime books, serial killers, and the psychological profile that made up these individuals. I would consider the crime and, by using the visions and

  images my guides gave me, attempt to figure out the whodunit as I read the books. With my diary, a pen, and the book, I spent hours writing down the symbols and clues that made up the visions that would be shown in my head. What was the weapon? If a gun, I would feel the gunshot; if a knife, the slash to my skin. Was the perpetrator male or female? With a male, I would feel a heavier feeling than the softer feel of a female. It became almost a game of charades that helped decipher the messages. What month did it happen? Was it cold or hot? Did I see an Easter lily or a Christmas tree? I realized I could hear, feel, smell, and see, and not just see in my mind’s eye—I could actually see the spirits just as if they were still flesh and blood. It became a bit of a game in order to decipher the clues, but it was something much more serious than a game. It was real. It would become my life. It is my life.

  [contents]

  six

  The Haunting

  The house I grew up in was a small Victorian in Detroit, Michigan, with two bedrooms upstairs and an added bedroom on the first floor. I shared an upstairs bedroom with my older sister, and my brother had the room next to ours.

  Because my siblings were so much older than me, I grew up as if I were an only child and was very spoiled, not only because my parents were financially stable, but because after raising two kids, they were confident enough to have a laid-back parenting style.

  I didn’t really have a bedtime and would much rather fall asleep with all of the lights on—I was even comforted when it was still light outside. This was because nighttime was when spirits were free to roam, at least in that home, and because they knew I could see them, it was also a free-for-all for them to tease and abuse me at will. Different from those that consoled me in the closet, these spirits were dark, evil even. Every night I raced as fast as I could to get into bed, sure th
at something was going to reach out and grab me. All the closets had to stay open, every light had to be on, and I still shook with fear. I didn’t have to explain what to do because in my family’s eyes none of it was real and I was just looking for attention. I’d stay awake as long as I could, sometimes until morning. This went on until I moved out of the house when I was nineteen.

  The worst part of the house was the basement. It was dimly lit, and although spotlessly clean, I just knew that something bad had happened underneath the stairway in a previous time. I’d be near tears if I had to go down to get the laundry. Once again, my family thought I was over-dramatizing, but as soon as I reached the third stair down, I could feel the watchful eyes of an entity that lived off of my fear and the negative energy that stood stagnate from past transgressions. It was a large, looming dark shadow that could teleport in an instant. The anticipation of what it could do, or what it was, frightened me. But it was the year that my dad began bringing home books on Aleister Crowley and demons that I stopped sleeping upstairs for good and slept on the living room couch.

  My dad wasn’t worshiping Satan, but was teaching cour-ses on the occult at our local church. Unfortunately, the portals already existing in the home, combined with the beacon of light that shone from me as if saying hey, this girl can see, hear, and feel you, amplified the activity. My brother would feel strangled by invisible hands after settling into bed. Objects would disappear, only to reappear in odd locations. The overall feeling of the house felt dark and dreary. One of the things that frightened my mom to death was birds. It didn’t matter what kind or how big or small they were, she didn’t like the sound of wings flapping. As my mom’s sight worsened, the issue with the birds did, too. It was always a crow or a raven, and we could never figure out how they got into the home, but we knew that they came from the basement. Always. And since that was her sign for death, as she had explained to me when my grandma passed away, it fueled her anxiety, and she silently wondered who else was going to be taken from her. The birds always found their way up from the basement and flapped around the house while my mom cowered, arms over her head, screaming for me to get help.