It's Mid-May 2016 and filming was scheduled to begin within a week. We were nowhere close to ready for that to happen. The house was a disaster and we were exhausted, stressed, and running out of time. The constant attacks from whatever was here had caused our house to have fallen in disarray. It's tough to do even the basic things when you're in pain, sick, scared and just exhausted on a daily basis. I wasn't feeling well at all. My head was spinning and pounding almost on a daily basis. I was having trouble concentrating, sleeping, and my joints were beginning to lock up from pain.
I was having a very difficult time tuning out the voices. They were speaking to me nearly non-stop; talking over each other but not at each other. It was like they were just talking to hear themselves talk. No matter how hard I tried I could not always disconnect myself from them.
New voices were starting to arrive on a daily basis. Some speaking languages I didn't know as well as in accents which made it very difficult for me to understand them. One of the voices really stuck out to me even though it wasn't English I felt connected to it. I couldn't understand it but it felt comforting and soothing; like it was teaching me something. The language seemed Native American and even though I had no formal education on the ins and outs of it, I felt in someway I understood it.
Over the next few days, the Native American voice started to drown out the others. It didn't completely silence them but it certainly did soften them a bit. At night I could hear a soft low chant as I laid in bed. It was calming, like a lullaby. The chant soothed my nerves and allowed me to drift off to sleep. The chant became a nightly thing. I was starting to learn it and found myself humming it as I laid in bed. For the first time, I started to feel somewhat decent and, on a small scale, I was starting to be productive again.
While I contended with the voices, the activity inside and outside of the house continued. The screams of the crazy woman had turned into a panicking scream of desperation. It was like she knew that she was failing at stopping Amy Allan from coming. The spoon was starting to disappear and reappear with a vengeance and figures started to appear.
One night as I was taking out the trash, I stepped outside and noticed something out of the corner of my eye. As I looked up, I saw him. A young man, maybe a teenager, wearing a Civil War era uniform. He was walking slowly from the fence line to the backside of the garage. I froze, I couldn't move. I just looked at him as he slowly walked. His head was hanging down and he was dragging a rifle by the barrel. I just watched and didn't speak. He looked up at me and the look on his face was one of overwhelming sorrow and pain. I was overcome with sadness. He walked behind the garage and I went around to see if I could still see him but he was gone. I have never felt so much sorrow and pain in my life. He was so young and yet his life must had been so hard and tragic. A life filled with horror, pain, and death. It was like I could feel all his emotions overtaking me all at once. His sorrow and pain were more than I could handle. I became emotional and broke down.
I went inside and told Jennifer about what I had seen as tears filled my eyes. It was heartbreaking and really took an emotional toll on me. Of all the things I had seen up to this point, this was the one that shook me up the most. It wasn't that it scared me, it was that it was such an emotional experience.
I could feel others too. More had come and I could sense them walking around the property. I just couldn't see them. It was like they were lining up to get their shot at us. The worse of the week was to come.
This is our ghost story from the beginning to where we are now. Thanks to help of Amy Allan and Steve DiSchiavi, along with the rest of The Dead Files, we are able to live a somewhat normal life.
Tuesday, January 16, 2018
Semana de los Muertos - la segunda parte
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