As a child you are naïve as to what goes on in this huge, wide open world.  You depend on your parents to protect and take care of you.

I’m not saying my parents didn’t take care of me, they did and in spades.  My father was in the military so I grew up all over the world.  I travelled around the world, living in exotic locales, sometimes with not so exotic people.

I grew up a sensitive.  Children do not try to understand why the man is under the bed, it scares them.  Me, I wasn’t scared.  I wasn’t scared of the boogyman, I went on pulled that closet door open and confronted him.  Told him to leave me alone.  That was mostly taught to me by my Mom, who is also a sensitive but the kind who knows when/how you die.

I’m more of the type that the spirits talk to me, constantly.  All day everyday, it’s like static running in the background.  When I sit real still and quite hey come and talk. Even demons have a story.

The first spirit encounter I recall, to this day wasn’t a scary one.

I was four years old living in the Philippines with my Mom, Dad and two brothers.  It was a blast, I could constantly run around with no shoes in shorts and tank tops playing in the sun chasing monkeys.  I was a kid, that’s what kids are suppose to do, right?

There were the nights I would see a white cat on the window sill, weaving it’s way around the stuff on the countertop, No one in the neighborhood had a white cat.  I didn’t know to question that, I would just at times try to pet it and it would vanish, cool trick a three and a half year old would think.

We moved from our house in Subic Bay to officers quarters in Cubi Point.  That’s when the actual human spirit activity started.

The house was up the hill from the base with a rain forest/jungle across the street.  I was to share a room with my little brother and my mom put my baby brother in the smaller bedroom.

She would find my brother and I tossing a plastic ball back and fourth, giggling and laughing when it bounce back at us from across the room without hitting a wall.  It wasn’t a huge deal to her that her kids where playing with ghosts.

I was soon moved to the smaller bedroom because as my Mom says, The baby would scream all night every time he was in that room.  Then there is me, I never had a problem.  Sure I would get up and find my dresser rifled through.  Everything all over the room, including all my stuffed animals off the walls.

I would tell my Mom, I saw a ghost do it and she would huff and make me clean it all up.  I figured she thought I helped, Until one day.  Mom was standing at the door watching me clean up the mess and all of a sudden the open drawer came flying out, landing on my foot.  Lost a big toe nail that day and that was the first in a long line of battle scars from spirits, the damn nail still doesn’t grow right.

There was one spirit I would talk to almost nightly.  We were in the Philippines at the very end (clean up stage) of the Vietnam war so there were TONS of spirit activity.  The bus carrying the wounded and dead soldiers would pass our house all day and night.  When traffic at the main gate was heavy or backed up the busses would be on the street and you could actually hear the moaning and screams of the injured men as they were being taken to the hospital.

He was a man wearing army green.  Nightly he would sit in the chair nearest the door.  For some reason I would get up nightly to get a drink of water (something I still do) and there he’d be, one leg flung over the arm, his metal helmet on his knee.

At first I just thought he was one of my Dad’s men he’d brought home and they were working (as my dad did often) all night long.

But he would be there almost every night, same clothes, same position and would say the same thing, I want to go home.

I did not understand what he meant.  To me it was ok, then go home.  I had no clue at four he was asking for help.  For his spirit to be released so he could, go home. It still makes me sad to think I allowed him to stagnate for five years, waiting.

Until we moved back to the states, to San Diego, California and the worst damn house I’d ever lived in, not the worst I’ve ever been in, but it taught me a lot about spirits and demons and the difference between the demons that can do physical harm and those who are the lower demon, who can just irritate you into doing things because they get off on it.  That house would send me around the world again, searching for ways to cope, deal, get rid of.

It is a daily learning experience, and they still talk, daily.  Even demons have story to tell and there has been one who never left, he’s around.  I can feel his red eyes on my back to this day, asking me what I want.  Waiting for the opportunity for me to take him up on his offer.