Meeting Place of the Dead. Richard Palmisano

five feet high flitting from the spare room door toward the lit, half-closed bathroom, before all was still.

      The environment surrounding me felt as if I was in the presence of someone else. The abrupt snap of the laminate flooring sounded as if someone had been standing in the doorway of the spare room and when they realized I was approaching, took their weight off that place to launch themselves into the bathroom, six feet away.

      Did my daughter get up to use the washroom? Was my wife around the corner of the spare room, hiding for some reason? I waited for a short time to listen for movement, before asking after my daughter. No reply came and I continued forward a little more cautiously, telling myself it was a ridiculous notion that she would be awake at that time of morning. Still, I peered into the darkened spare room, then slowly opened the bathroom door the rest of the way to inspect the interior.

      In the six years we have lived in our house, I have walked that hall hundreds of times. Never once have I heard a floorboard creak or snap like this, simply by walking the same path I was routinely walking as I was that morning.

      I climbed into bed cautiously, listening for more foreign sounds in and outside the bedroom. Satisfied my alarm clock was set for the correct wake-up time, I slowly relaxed under the covers.

      What seemed like a short time later, my bedside alarm clock sounded, its merciless beeping alerting me that it was time to rise for the day and begin it by preparing lunch for our daughter’s school day, as was my weekday custom. Crediting the incredible sense of exhaustion I was feeling as a result of my late turn-in time, I staggered to the kitchen and began to start the day.

      About fifteen minutes passed as I fed the cats, washed a few dishes, and started to make coffee. While I was filling the kettle with water, I turned to reach for the stove element dial. My eyes fell on the stovetop clock. The digital clock read 3:48.

      I blinked, utterly perplexed. Rubbing my eyes, I focused again on the stovetop clock, before glancing to the microwave clock, which echoed the display panel of the stove’s.

      Ensuring I hadn’t turned on any electrical equipment during my time in the kitchen, I returned to bed, grateful for another two hours’ worth of sleep. An inspection of my bedside clock confirmed it was indeed still set to alarm at 5:55 a.m.

      Events such as these had never happened to me before, nor have they happened since.

      None of the at-home incidents I’ve described would strike me as particularly frightening or thought-provoking on their own, but the fact that they occurred within a space of a few early morning hours after I had requested communication during my solo investigations, compels me to include them here.

      Must I attribute them all as products of an overactive imagination, or to a mind trained to perceive them with open skepticism? Could I have been paid a visit or two by a resident of the cottage, boldly investigating me?

      Be careful what you wish for.

      Conclusions:

      It was interesting to note over the time Peter commenced his solo visits to the cottage that the non-aggressive posture produced little results. However there seemed to be some sort of bond developed over this time as a spirit in the building started following him home.

      This raised a red flag for me. Sometimes when they follow you home it is to disrupt your household, a sort of retaliation to investigating theirs.

      5

      Third Investigation

      Late January

      The team assembled slowly, and as we waited for the rest to show up Peter, Paul, and I looked over the cottage exterior. It was bitter cold and Paul suggested we move inside just as the rest of the team pulled into the driveway. We headed inside and placed our equipment in the kitchen.

      Paul and I started to set up the audio and video surveillance equipment. Joan, our medium for the night, toured the main floor, checking each room and paying close attention to the northwest room and the alcove under the stairs.

      One of the investigators, James, started to take photos while Peter and Victoria prepared their equipment.

      Joan returned and mentioned that she had received an impression of a body buried on the property and that it was hidden, possibly in the barn.

      Peter and Joan headed to the second floor. Victoria followed them up.

      They moved through the second floor and stopped at the bathroom.

      “This house is very old. There was a husband and wife and he had a daughter,” Joan began.

      “Here? Up here or in the house, generally?” Peter inquired, looking for clarity.

      “No, generally, yeah. They lived here, the three of them. Maybe they had a son, I don’t know, it’s … I feel like the husband is abusing her or just shouting at her and putting her inside that — under the stairs. And there was a lock; he used to lock it. And that was a hiding place for her; a place she had to be,” Joan explained.

      “So he put her in there for punishment? Or did she have to hide from him in there?” Peter asked.

      “Both. Sometimes she went there and sometimes he had to put her there for a while.”

      Joan was indicating the alcove built under the stairs on the main floor.

      “It was that spot that you were looking in earlier downstairs?”

      “Yeah. As soon as I opened it I knew there was a child in there, or used to be there. And as soon as I opened it and it was like … there was a connection. I knew that. I don’t know if it’s a ‘he’ or a ‘she.’ Before I came here I told Richard that I feel like there is a husband and wife and a child.”

      Peter didn’t say anything. Later, he suggested that the child was a tomboy, which would explain the medium’s confusion.

      “So are these feelings you’re picking up, or can they share names and dates with you yet?” Peter asked.

      “I don’t know, yet. I told Richard it’s like people are coming to this house and going; it’s like neighbours or they’re doing something here. Lots of people. I see people — they are coming and leaving. Lots of noises — talking about things. I don’t know yet.”

      “Is anybody here with us, now?” Peter asked.

      “No. Here? No.”

      “Like the angry man?”

      “Actually, downstairs in that northwest room — the second one. The chair I was sitting down in, I felt like a male used to sit there. And I sat down on a chair; I felt like he doesn’t want me to sit there. I felt there was a guy; he used to sit in that corner, always.”

      “And that’s the same angry man, or perhaps a different guy?” Peter asked.

      “He’s not angry, but I think he’s drinking a lot, like, getting drunk most of the time and I can see that his right hand is like that.” Joan mimed pounding up and down. “I don’t know what he has in his hand, I don’t see it; I don’t feel it yet, but … he has a cane or something in his hand.”

      “So while he was drunk he would be angry?”

      “Yeah, he wants something. He’s shouting and he wants it. That’s why everybody gets scared or something? I feel like it’s not a happy house, at all. I don’t feel happy. It’s like lonely. It feels so weird.”

      Joan opened the closet just outside the master bedroom. “It’s like the wife used to put something in here. They had a baby, also…”

      “In addition to the other child?” Peter inquired, looking into the closet.

      “Yeah. It’s like, uh … baby stuff. But there’s no baby; I don’t feel any baby” — she paused — “Maybe passed away, or something? Someone died in the bathroom.”

      Paul and I arrived to set up a surveillance camera in