On the Record
I’ve often found myself wondering if certain individuals possess an extraordinary gift to perceive or sense things beyond our physical world. This notion might seem outlandish unless one has personally encountered such abilities. We frequently see psychics on TV or hear about mediums who claim to communicate with the departed, and most of us approach these assertions with a healthy dose of skepticism. However, this doubt can quickly fade when one experiences something truly remarkable and feel an innate connection to the spirit realm.
I’ve been on a journey of self-awareness, sharing my experiences through short, true stories. While my intuition and gut feelings guide me, they aren’t my sole decision-making tools. They do, however, shape how I view problems and situations. Some of my experiences are hard to define—easily grasped by some, while others might add their own theories.
We all have this innate ability. I often feel in my gut whether something is right or wrong, like if I’ll get a job or not. It’s not something tangible or easy to explain—it’s just a knowing. These undefinable, untouched, and unexplored feelings have a powerful influence on my psyche. We’re all wired the same way, with the same intuitive feelings, yet some of us are more deeply entrenched in a world that offers few answers.
Intuition is my sixth sense. It is my inner voice, yes you know the one, the one that you hear instinctively when at a crossroad to make decisions? It does give me the ability to assess situations using my experiences and gut instinct and a hunch. These feelings, hunches instincts are not tangible. They remain unexplored, waiting for the moment when you may have that “Aha!” moment.
What entrances me more deeply is the exploration of these feelings and the otherworldly insights they bring. It’s like stepping into another realm where intuition reigns supreme, guiding me through the mysteries of life with a sense of wonder and curiosity. Imagine it as navigating through a magical forest, where each twist and turn reveals hidden paths and enchanted creatures, all whispering secrets of the universe.
These short stories are a diverse mix, featuring everything from overactive and vivid imaginations to inexplicable events, presented in no particular order.
The House
Imagine stepping into a house you’ve never been to before. Suddenly, a wave of fear hits you like a freight train, and you just know something is off. It’s like your senses are on high alert, and every hair on your arms stands up as a chill runs down your spine. “I need to get out of here,” you think. But why? Is it just a feeling, a hunch? There’s nothing tangible, yet the urge to leave is overwhelming. Is it irrational? Or is it?
I met my friend Tim at a house he was considering buying for his mom and sister. It was a terraced house with a larger-than-usual front yard leading up to a dark red front door, where the agent stood with a welcoming smile. I followed Tim and the agent inside. The house smelled dank and musty, and it felt heavy, almost oppressive. To the right, stairs led to the upper floor, but I couldn’t go any further. I stopped short, feeling that familiar unease and heaviness surge through me. The hair on my arms stood up, and I began to feel ill. I had to get out of there. The energy was all wrong, and every fiber of my being screamed at me to leave.
There was nothing tangible to explain my feelings. It was pure gut instinct, a primal reaction to protect myself. The agent and Tim looked at me, puzzled. “Sorry, I’m really sorry. Can I wait in the car?” I asked, my voice shaky.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tim asked, concerned, as he handed me his keys.
“Yes, yes, talk later,” I mumbled, stumbling in my haste to get out of the house.
As I waited for Tim, I wondered what I would tell him. I knew I had to advise him against buying the house, but how could I justify it? Should I tell him I felt a presence or that something bad had happened there? Skeptics would laugh, thinking it was wild imagination. But it was real for me. I suggested Tim look at other houses, but he had already made up his mind. He was buying it! When he asked about my feelings, I told him the truth. I couldn’t substantiate it or offer proof. It was just a hunch. I expected him to laugh, but instead, he said, “If it were anyone else but you, I would be laughing. So no, I don’t think you’re crazy, but I didn’t feel a thing, so I’m going with my gut!” he said, laughing.
“Come on, let’s go to the Whitgift, have lunch, and you can help me put together a list for the agent!” Tim moved his mom and sister into the house a few months later. About a week after they moved in, Tim called to say his mom had an accident. She fell down the stairs and broke her toe. On the very day he called me, his sister slipped on the stairs and sprained her ankle.
Several months later, an ashen-faced Tim stood at my doorstep. He told me he had spoken to the elderly man who lived next door to his mom. The old man said, “Shame about the old geezer that lived there before you!”
“What do you mean?” Tim asked.
“Well, poor old Codger fell down the stairs, broke his neck. Died right there, at the bottom of the stairs.”
And there it was, the gut feeling I had from the start. It wasn’t just a hunch. Sometimes, our instincts know more than we do.
Cornflake Ghost
There have been moments when my imagination has led me astray, overwhelmed by emotions and fear. A deeply religious Muslim Imam once told me, “Fear can become all-consuming and bigger than the very thing you are scared of.” He was right, and over the years, I have experienced many such moments. These instances are part of a “sixth sense” awareness, combined with a vivid imagination, which shapes my experiences.
In 1963, our family faced a heartbreaking tragedy. My beloved cousin, Lucy, succumbed to a devastating house fire and died at the age of nine, the same age as me. She was my favorite cousin, and I loved her dearly. We played together endlessly, creating memories that I still cherish today. Losing her was a profound loss, and I remember her often, with deep regret for a young life cut so short.
I used to hear my aunt tell my mum that Lucy visited her every night. I wished she would visit me too, and often imagined she was still with us as we played our games. Though I longed to see her again, the thought that she was no longer of this world filled me with trepidation.
Lucy’s presence filled our basement apartment, and sometimes it was easy to imagine that she was still there and always would be.
We lived in the basement of a grand, three-storied house in London. The black front door, aged and imposing, was tucked away on the side of the house, leading into a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The first room you saw was the living room, a cozy haven with worn, plush furniture and a fireplace that crackled warmly in the winter months. On either side of this room were bedrooms, each with its own character and secrets.
The long hallway stretched out from the living room, its wooden floorboards creaking underfoot, leading to a tiny, almost forgotten kitchen. This kitchen seemed so far away from the living room, as if it were a separate world entirely. The walls were adorned with old, faded wallpaper depicting pastoral scenes, and the air always carried the faint scent of spices and home-cooked meals.
At night, the house took on a different personality. Shadows danced in the corners, and every sound was amplified, echoing through the old walls.
One evening, months after my cousin left, my mum asked me to make a bottle for my baby sister. It was a daunting task for me as our kitchen in that house was located at the back of the house accessible through a small hallway. I couldn’t refuse as my mum and dad were busy working. I squared my shoulders. “I am going in!” To bolster my courage I began to sing a song as loudly as possible thinking the louder I sang, the safer I would be. In a weird way it gave courage as I did not feel alone.
I poured the milk in a pot, and was about to turn on the stove when I heard it. A distinct noise like rustling. Oh my God I thought, something is in the kitchen with me. I froze and the sound stopped!
I turned back to the stove and lit the burner. There it was again. This time there was no stopping me. Every nerve in my body was on high alert and no amount of rational thinking could assuage the mounting anxiety I was feeling. Like a lightning bolt I screamed in terror and dashed out of the kitchen.
Mum and Dad came running out as I screeched out “There’s a ggggghost in the kitchen!” Mum took me into the living room where my siblings were standing there anxious and perhaps scared themselves. Dad. had bravely gone to the kitchen to investigate.
Mum managed to calm me down by which time Dad returned and in his hand was a Kellogg’s cornflakes box. He had a strange smile on his face as he called me over to him telling me to look inside the box. I didn’t want to but he encouraged me to and there at the bottom of the box was a small baby mouse stuck in the folds of the cornflakes see through pouch.
My siblings by now were laughing openly at me and I was devastated feeling foolish. It was a memory that I never forgot and was never allowed to forget it either.
Is She Really Here?
Back in the late 60s, when Mum’s aunt passed away, it was customary for everyone to gather at the “Dead House” to keep a Wake, pray, or simply chit-chat. People would bring food, and this would go on all through the night. In the UK back then, it was normal practice to bring the deceased person home the night before the funeral. They did just that with Nanie. She was lying peacefully asleep in her coffin in the corner by the window of the front room. It didn’t phase us as kids. We were used to this sort of thing, but I was always careful never to look too long at the person because I would then carry that with me.
At some point during the night, all the kids were sent upstairs to bed. My siblings and I were in the front room where they had made makeshift beds on the floor. We laid down, said our prayers, when one of my brothers, whispered, “Nanie is here, look she is over there!”
We all looked in the direction he pointed, and there was a collective inhalation of breath. We were terrified at what we saw!
Standing bent over, as was Nanie’s stance, was a figure that looked like Nanie. We didn’t see a face, but the shape and outline were that of a person.
We were too scared to get up and run, we huddled closer together, held each other’s hands, and closed our eyes tightly.
“Keep your eyes closed and go to sleep,” my sister told us yawning loudly.
Restless, uneasy sleep was all I got that night. I would pray that Nanie would go away, but every time I looked over, she was still there.
Morning came, and the sunlight streamed through the curtains. I peeked over, thinking Nanie would be gone by now, but she was still there, though it looked like she had a sheet draped over her. One by one, my siblings woke up, whispering that Nanie was still here, but we were wondering why she had a sheet draped over her. Getting up, we inched slowly over to her, and one of the boys yanked the sheet off. Our mouths dropped, and we looked at each other before collapsing on the floor, giggling our heads off.
Underneath that sheet was a stand-up, old-fashioned hair dryer!
And so, in the youthful spirit of adventure and imagination, we learned that sometimes, the things that scare us the most turn out to be nothing more than a relic of the past, draped in mystery and a bit of humor.
The Mist
I hesitate to say that I am psychic or that I have psychic abilities. However, I often sense the physical and emotional states of those around me. It’s a gut feeling, an intuitive hunch, without anything tangible to pinpoint. Albert Einstein once said, “The only real valuable thing is intuition.” Marilyn Monroe added, “A woman knows by intuition, or instinct, what is best for herself.”
My next story is different because I actually saw something. It wasn’t just a hunch; it was real.
In March 1978, I lay in bed with my two little girls, staring at the ceiling, waiting for them to fall asleep. We were living in my parents’ home in a one-bedroom flat. Something above the wardrobe caught my eye. I blinked once, twice, rubbed my eyes, and closed them. It was still there—a fluffy, white cloud-like object, reminiscent of cotton candy, hovering over the wardrobe.
Whatever it was, it didn’t belong there. As I stared at it, fear began to creep in. Without thinking, I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs to the kitchen where my siblings were gathered.
“What’s wrong with you?” one of my brothers asked, his eyebrows knitting together in a mix of curiosity and concern.
“Nothing,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant as I walked over to the kitchen sink. But the words tumbled out before I could stop them, “There’s a thing in my room, a cloud-like, misty thing over the wardrobe.”
The room fell silent. My siblings exchanged glances, their expressions a blend of skepticism and intrigue. My eldest sister, always the practical one, tilted her head and raised an eyebrow, as if weighing the plausibility of my claim. My youngest brother, the joker of the family, stifled a laugh, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Fine, come on guys, let’s go and see this mist-like thing,” said the older brother said, his voice dripping with a mix of sarcasm and curiosity.
We traipsed upstairs, the wooden steps creaking under our weight. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of fear and embarrassment. As we entered the room, I realized with a sinking feeling that I had left my girls sleeping while I ran away. The room was just as I had left it, but the mist was gone.
“Oh, my goodness, you left the girls alone?” my sister asked horrified peering across the bed to make sure the girls were ok. Guilty as charged.
“You actually ran and left those girls? What if it was something?” my younger brother mocked me, his eyes twinkling with mischief. I knew I would never live this down.
My siblings looked around, their faces a study in disappointment and disbelief. My eldest sister sighed, her shoulders slumping as if to say, “I knew it.” My youngest brother couldn’t hold back any longer and let out a chuckle, shaking his head.
“She’s bloody mad,” the unspoken words hung in the air, heavy and palpable.
Sheepishly, I crawled back into bed, feeling foolish. I tried to convince myself that I had imagined the whole thing, but the memory of the mist lingered, a ghostly reminder of what I had seen.
The next day, at 8 am on that Sunday morning, we got the call. Dad answered the phone; I was feeding the girls but looked at him as his tone had changed. I felt instinctively that something was wrong.
The sound of the phone had woken the others up, and one by one, they came into the kitchen.
Dad hung up the phone, his voice hoarse with emotion, and said, “That was your mother. Your grandma just died.”
Devastated, we all sat in silence around the kitchen table, lost in thought.
That was the first time I saw the mist, but it would not be the last. It is 2024 as I write this, and I have seen the mist on countless occasions when it uncannily appears as a signal that something significant, often death or some other unfortunate event, is about to occur. Although I cannot predict who or what it will be, the mist has become a reliable warning sign for me.
I last saw the mist a week before my sister-in-law’s mother passed in 2023. I was lying on the sofa, wide awake, and then I saw it. It was slightly different now, larger than I had seen before and swirly. I lay there watching it for quite some time. My eyes were wide open. I was not sleepy. That was a tangible thing and not just a feeling or a hunch.
Later, I reached for my phone and messaged my kids and grandchildren as I usually did whenever I saw the mist.
“Hey guys, I saw the mist this morning. Please all take care and be careful.” It was my early warning system message that they have become used to receiving.
A week later, I got the call from my brother. His beloved mother-in-law had died.
Recently, I came across an article by Dr. Raymond Moody, known for his pioneering work in near-death experiences. His article discusses a strange mist that people have reported seeing over a deathbed. People have described it in many different ways; some say it looks like steam, others say it looks like smoke, and some people have reported seeing the shape of a human being (Glimpses of Eternity, Dr. Raymond Moody).
Food for thought? Fanciful thinking? To those who experience such uncanny feelings and phenomena, it is very real. There are those who would still question sanity or attribute to other factors or reasonings.
Could This Be Real?
I was thrilled to be invited to a Christmas celebration at my friend Ingrid’s new house. She had recently moved in and was eager to show it off. The evening began in the cozy living room, where we nibbled on hors d’oeuvres and shared stories, laughter filling the air. Everyone was relaxed and enjoying themselves.
An hour later, Ingrid invited us down to the basement, where she had prepared a sumptuous feast. The enormous table, which seated all of us comfortably, was a sight to behold. Candles flickered along the greenery running down the center, interspersed with sparkling green and red foil bits. Each place setting was meticulously arranged with indigo blue and gold chargers, white dinner plates rimmed in gold, and matching side plates. A linen napkin, elegantly draped across each plate, held gold cutlery in a hand-folded pocket. The blue-tinged wine and water glasses complemented the setup perfectly.
I took my seat between Chas and Diana, but as soon as I sat down, an overwhelming sense of fear washed over me. The hair on my arms stood up, and the room suddenly felt icy cold. My fear was so intense that I had to excuse myself, pretending I needed to use the bathroom.
Ingrid’s house was a back-split design, with the living and dining rooms appearing sunken. Four steps up led to the back-split where the bathroom and bedrooms were located.
“Are you okay, Rosy?” Ingrid asked, concern in her voice as she followed me.
“Yes, yes. Sorry, I just need to use the bathroom,” I replied, trying to sound casual.
“Okay, you know where it is, right? Up the stairs, to the right!” Ingrid returned to the basement, and I headed up the stairs.
As soon as I closed the bathroom door, a paralyzing fear gripped me. I had never experienced anything like it before. Instinctively, I started to pray, sensing that this was something evil and powerful. I was frozen, struggling to move my limbs, like in those nightmares where you can’t break free.
“I am not scared of you,” I said loudly, followed by a prayer in Arabic. Somehow, I found the strength to move. Once outside the bathroom, I felt weak and limp. Crossing the dining room, I went into the living room and sat down. The feeling was completely different there; it was as if nothing had happened.
I realized that whatever was in the house was confined to the bathroom and the basement. There was something evil, and I needed to leave. I texted Ingrid, asking her to come upstairs.
“Ingrid, I’m not feeling well. I think I need to go home. Can you call me an Uber?” My voice cracked as I spoke.
“Oh no, Rosy, I’m so sorry to hear that. Do you want to lie down for a bit and see how you feel?” she asked, concerned.
“Honestly, no. I know when this happens, I need to be home. I’m so sorry.”
“Please don’t apologize.” With that, she went off to call an Uber.
I didn’t tell anyone why I left that evening, only that I wasn’t feeling well. The encounter had left me shaken. Months later, while talking with Diana, she mentioned something about Ingrid moving.
I told Diana what had happened that night. She was silent for a moment before saying, “Rosy, did you know Ingrid is moving because she thinks the house is possessed?”
“What?” I replied in a hushed tone.
Diana explained that Ingrid believed there was a ghost in her house, an evil presence that scared her. She urged me to talk to Ingrid.
When I shared my experience with Ingrid, she focused on the bathroom and the basement. She had experienced similar feelings there. The most striking thing she revealed was that this entity would visit her in her room early in the morning. Ingrid had seen then shape of a man. He never came into her room, always stood in the doorway. She sensed his evilness.
In the end, Ingrid decided to move out of the house, unable to live with the constant fear and unsettling presence. Our friendship grew stronger as we supported each other through this eerie experience, and it served as a reminder of the mysterious and sometimes inexplicable forces that can touch our lives
Realization
Defining intuition or feelings is challenging; there is no single, conclusive analogy or explanation. Over the years, I’ve noticed certain traits in people who have experienced similar things to me.
Having a sixth sense can be a stigma, with people labeling you based on their own ideas and their ability to compartmentalize situations they don’t understand. My journey toward understanding and interpreting my intuition and hunches spans decades. How many of you listen to that little voice in your head? Yes, you know the one! The first instinctive voice you hear when you think of doing something. That little voice acts as a guide for me. It’s not absolute, but it does make me pause before taking action.
As an intuitive person, I cannot ignore my gut feelings or the fact that I feel things keenly. Instead, I use it to explore and think beyond what is readily in front of my eyes. Though not the sole determinant of my decisions, this emotional aspect does factor into how I make choices.
Intuition can sometimes be the bane of my soul. I often say, with the utmost respect, that I should never be a juror. I am flexible in my thinking, often finding each side justified. I once thought this ability to flip-flop was a weakness, but it is actually a strength, as it brings out the empathetic part of who I am.
I end this chapter of my “eerie stories” with a promise of more to come. My world, once devoid of “seeing” anything, now takes on a new perspective that challenges everything I believed in. Stay tuned for the next chapter, where the mysteries of intuition continue to unfold.
