“They say that sometimes when you have a traumatic experience, that it can alter your perception.”
– Frank Bannister, The Frighteners
I’ve always had a fascination with the unexplained.
What is now my attempt to find answers about the other realms, afterlife, and general things that go bump in the night was once something I never would have done.
I grew up in a very religious household. Jesus Cristo was present at the beginning of every meal, at every family event. We even sang “Happy Birthday” to the man every year on Christmas. The older I got, the more this holier-than-thou mentality pushed me to walk in the opposite direction.
If you asked my grandma about ghosts, as I had a few times, she’d start muttering prayers in Spanish. My grandpa was the exact opposite. As a kid I would wait in my bed, pretending to be asleep, until I heard the click of my mom’s bedroom door close. After a safe amount of time, I’d tiptoe into my grandpa’s room and watch X-Files with him.
My grandpa had an interest in all things scary and strange and, whether he meant to or not, he passed it down to me with every movie we watched.
As I got older I continued to gravitate toward content and experiences that would only make that interest grow. I read scary stories, played “light as a feather, stiff as a board” with my friends, and watched The Craft and Casper too many times to count. In middle school, my friends and I even went into a dilapidated, abandoned house that was rumored to be haunted, scrutinizing anything suspicious that we saw.
At the same time, something else was happening; I was becoming afraid. I leaned towards logical, science-based facts, but what if those were only one side of reality?
When I was 20, I moved from my grandparent’s house in Pico Rivera, California to Portland, Oregon for a change of scenery. The apartment that my friend and I were able to afford was a small one-bedroom, with thick carpeting and a collection of mismatched furniture we had picked up for free around the city. One of our living room decorations was a tower of empty beer cans. It was barely a space for anyone alive, much less anything supernatural.
But one night I was woken by the distinct, unmistakable sound of feet shuffling slowly up and down our hallway. To say that I’m a heavy sleeper is an understatement; I’ve slept through earthquakes. But this light, delicate sound snapped me awake in the middle of the night while my roommate lay asleep, unbothered. I heard the feet shuffling for a number of nights afterward, always waking to the sound of them in the dark.
One day, while alone in the apartment and beginning to drift toward sleep, I heard a voice in my ear: “Lauren!”
It was as crisp and clear as if a human man had been sitting right next to me. It wasn’t a whisper, a raspy voice, or even remotely close to any ghostly wailing. Just one simple, “Lauren!”
“What?” I said.
Silence.
It wasn’t furniture moving across the room, or lights flickering, or even chills going up my spine. In fact, I wasn’t scared at all. It was just out of the ordinary.
Years passed and, while I did hear the voice one more time, life moved on. I didn’t think much of it.
Then, in 2019, life stopped for a while.
One of my closest friends, Jeff, died by suicide. Even though he’d been battling depression and mental disorders for years, it was still the biggest shocks of my life.
I couldn’t move or do anything for months. I quit my job and stayed inside, alone. We had been depression accountability partners. We had dated. Hell, I had lost my virginity to him, a choice I hadn’t made lightly.
There were things I wanted to say that I never did because god forbid I ever look vulnerable, especially when it mattered. If there’s a way to describe how it felt, I have yet to figure out what those words are. The world has never looked the same and I doubt it ever will.
I begged him to visit me in my dreams or for a sign of any kind. I got a few here and there, but a part of me still wonders if they were truly “signs” or just coincidences. When I dreamt of him, was it my subconscious cutting me a break, or had he really found a way to see me again?
I couldn’t sit around and wonder about it anymore. If, as the X-Files had always claimed, “the truth is out there,” what was I waiting for?
When I hit the internet looking for someone to help me, the person who responded was not at all who I expected. Enter my friend Andie, a medium.
I had known Andie for a few years, having met while working at the same corporate coffee chain, and I never knew she had this ability. You’d never guess it just by talking to her. Maybe this is because after many years of seeing and communicating with spirits, she’s learned how to handle it well. She doesn’t look like a Lydia Deetz type or even brings up the subject of ghosts. She’s an anthropology major and an amateur photographer, often posting photos of natural landscapes and majestic night skies.
We met up and drove together through L.A. traffic toward Griffith Park for our first night of ghost-seeking. We both agreed that the term “ghost hunting” is strange. After all, we weren’t hunting anything.
She tells me about how this gift runs in her family and how she’s had it since she was a kid. She used to see her grandpa’s ghost peek his head into her bedroom. Her TV would turn on by itself and change channels until it would stop on cartoons they used to watch together.
She’s also seen some not-so-friendly spirits: spirits masquerading as people she once knew, perhaps to “trick her into allowing them in.” As far as I can tell, telling the difference is a gut feeling.
I start to describe to Andie the things I heard in Oregon. Before I can even finish my sentence about the voice, she interrupts me.
“Ugh, I hate when they do that,” she says. “It’s always when I’m trying to sleep, too! Like, if you want to talk, fine, but can we do it when I’m not trying to sleep?”
After spending years trying to block out her abilities, and developing headaches in response, Andie was finally able to accept them. Her headaches went away and she has, what appears to be, a handle on everything. She has even found that, if she asks nicely, a ghost will leave her alone and let her sleep.
She’s here to explore her abilities.
As for me, I don’t have an interest in the paranormal anymore. I have a need to explore it. To find out if maybe there’s a place Jeff went where he can finally be okay.
I don’t expect to find Jeff, and I’m not looking for him. If he wants to find me, he knows where I am. I don’t know what I expect to find, or if I will find anything. We might just be two women walking around in the dark. But I do know that if I can find any answers, I want to.
I’ve been through enough normal trauma and it’s altered my perception. Nothing paranormal can scare me now.