Rule 1 was never assume other people will believe the supernatural, let alone in your psychic ability. Rule 2 was to keep a sharp yardstick of judgment and control during any seemingly psychic incident, to rule out physical and psychological causes and stay in charge of the experience. And Rule 3 was to keep a Godly light—an aura of protection against evil—around oneself whenever dealing with the spirit world.
Mother admitted to her own psychic talent and warned me that my father had not a shred of belief in any of it. And so we became our own secretive, helpmate society, Mother and I. My sister, at six years old, was still too young for us to tell if she’d inherited the trait. As it turned out, she hadn’t, and since then Ginnie and I have had long sisterly talks concerning the paranormal, agreeing to disagree, but twelve years ago, Mother deemed it wise to keep Ginnie well out of it. And now, as that brooding male spirit flitted purposely about me in the kitchen late that night, I fervently wished my mother were with me. Even Gin’s blunt skepticism would have been welcomed if it served to drive him away.
I clutched Daniel to me and began to mentally build a halo of protective light around both of our bodies. Auric colors, invisible to the mortal eye, surrounded us, blue, gold, and white. The spirit made no move to interfere with my psychic defense. I sealed the auras and felt immensely calmer. I stood up to take Daniel back to his crib.
The spirit’s psychic voice intruded again, soft now, soothing, but carrying a possessive, chauvinistic edge. —I would never harm you, nor your child. Nor would I allow any other to harm you.—
“Who are you?” I whispered.
The velvet tone of his answer almost stroked me. —One who loved you long ago and has returned.— I sensed a wistful smile, a small, upward turn of his lips.
I gave no answer, unwilling to involve myself until he gave more answers. I knew he was the same spirit who had earlier disrupted my rest, still slightly sinister in manner and aspect, and I put no trust in him at all.
I laid Daniel down in his crib, and returned to the bedroom.
My husband was asleep. I crawled into bed and curled up against his back. He didn’t stir.
I lay awake, wondering if the dark spirit had left, abandoning whatever purpose had brought him here, and then felt the slightest touch upon my head, as if soft fingers ran though my loosened hair.
I lay still, the touch gentle, that which a woman receives from a man who cherishes her.
I quieted my thoughts, waiting, drawn to this mysterious male presence who would not reveal himself.
But only silence greeted my curious vigil, all sensation ceased, and I nodded off, sleeping undisturbed till morning.
* * * *
The next day Richard went out to the Department of Public Welfare, and the dark spirit returned.
I could sense a bit more of his appearance, envisioning black hair, a long, angular face, and his tall and trim figure clothed in a black, tailored business suit. I distinctly felt that he was allowing me to see this, revealing himself a little at a time. I wondered if he chose this pacing because he was unsure of himself, afraid I would reject him, or simply due to his owning a recalcitrant nature.
I was in the kitchen, once more, when he reappeared. My hands were greasy from stuffing the roasting chicken. Daniel lay in his baby carrier, which I’d placed on the table beside me, watching me work and playing with plastic rattle-keys. The radio on top of the refrigerator broadcast pop tunes.
I reinforced the psychic auras around myself and the baby and tried to ignore the dark presence.
—Leigh Ann,— he murmured, seeming quite at home with my name.
I gave no response.
—Leigh Ann . . .— More insistently.
On rare occasions, when I was alone—Daniel too young to understand my words—I spoke aloud to spirits. Now I did so deliberately, to emphasize that this spirit had violated my mortal territory and had broken my standards of psychic courtesy, but in doing so had merely gained my anger and disdain, never my fear. “You know my name,” I said softly, “but you’re impolite. You haven’t told me who you are.” I waited a minute for this to sink in, then said, “Go away.”
He, too, paused. —I cannot.—
This ambiguous answer puzzled me. “Cannot go away, or cannot tell me who you are?”
—Cannot tell you who I am.—
“Then leave, please.”
I finished stuffing the bird, rinsed off and dried my hands, and began selecting my poultry seasonings, unscrewing their caps. Daniel watched me, lifting his pudgy little hand to make his keys rattle.
—I have something of importance to tell you.—
“Then tell me and leave.”
—You must not make love with your husband anymore.—
I said nothing.
—He will hurt you. He will bring you pain and illness. Do not let him lie with you!—
Jealousy edged his words. My face reddened, and my anger flared. “You’ve delivered your message! Now, leave!”
A tense, responding anger chilled me, prickling my skin.
—Remember,— he said curtly, and then the sensation of psychic cold dissipated, with his presence so strikingly removed, the kitchen seemed brighter by comparison.
When Richard came back early that evening, I presented him with a decent dinner—roasted chicken, stuffing and peas, the last of our vegetables. I had even baked cookies, and we munched them over coffee for dessert.
I considered telling him about the spirit, but decided it would only add more conflict to the marriage. Richard had been somewhat successful at the welfare office. We were to be issued food stamps next week. It didn’t relieve my long-term worries. I intended to launch my idea, my plan, that weekend. That, too, I kept from Richard.
Our evening passed pleasantly, without argument. Daniel nodded off to sleep at 9:00 PM, and when Richard later reached out to me, I didn’t turn away.
I let Richard make up that night for the previous night’s coitus interruptus. His renewed interest toward me gave me hope that our marriage might repair itself.
I would normally explore a spirit’s warning for potential substance and validity. But I gave no credence to the crass blathering of the dark presence. I ignored his warning.
CHAPTER 2
We drove up to Philadelphia in the little Volkswagen Richard purchased in the last year. It was used and had twice needed repairs. I remember worrying if it would break down on the way, but it didn’t. It rode us smoothly into Northeast Philadelphia, where my parents, sister and brother lived in a tall, single home shaped like a dutch windmill, on a sunny tree-lined street.
The whole area had once been farmland, but after World War I, developers had come in. They laid streets where dirt roads had connected the remaining older houses and stores and created a large residential and commercial section which flourished further after World War II. GIs brought their brides to newly purchased row homes there, and couples raised their children in an atmosphere both countrified and citified.
My father, Bill Elfman, had been among the lucky ones, able to purchase one of the fine old homes built around the beginning of the 20th century for less than $15,000. His GI benefits helped finance it and also helped him pay for vocational school, learning air-conditioning, heating and plumbing. He later concentrated on the latter, becoming a master plumber, and now served customers throughout Philadelphia and southern New Jersey.
My mother, Miriam Elfman, gave birth to me in 1948, two years into their