DO MEDIUMS
TELL THE
FUTURE?
as an opinion and nothing more.
I was reading a man whose dead mother brought up the subject of her high-school aged grandchildren who were living with her daughter's less than beloved ex-husband. The mother-in-law in spirit said, ‘They’ll be gone as the first minute they can get out of there.' voiced as a simple opinion, not prophecy.
Mediums are trained to stick to what the dead want to say, and I've never known a spirit who is able to tell the future any more than the living. But there is a type of reader who can make predictions. Years ago, I went to see a woman living in the middle of New
Jersey's Pine Barrens who gave readings in a shadowy den festooned with images of Elvis on velvet. She asked for a piece of my jewelry. No, I wasn't being robbed, the woman's specialty was psychometry, meaning that she got information by holding an object that had been physically close to a person long enough to absorb and imprint facts about the owner.
“I see a man with jet-black hair. It’s shiny and combed back. His name is John. You don’t know him now, but you will. He’ll bring you business.”
“I see two towers, two huge white towers. I see you going back and forth to the towers, and then moving nearby.”
At the time I was living in Philadelphia with no plans to relocate. But as fate would have it, a few weeks later a
stranger named John called from out-of-the-blue with a laundry list of projects relating to work that I was doing then. John was successful and looked the part, especially the slicked back hair. I had no desire to leave the City of Brotherly Love, the but lady was
right. A year later I moved to New York City, after a spate of interviews at the former World Trade Center.
In this instance, a reader trained in psychometry did predict the future, but a medium is trained to simply pass along words and images offered by a spirit and nothing more. I’ve never heard a spirit predict whether a client was going to land a certain job or get the object of their heart’s desire, so in turn I didn't predict those things. Instead, from what I've seen, the dead like to concentrate on remembrances and explanations, occasionally peppered with opinion.
© Medium Gail, MediumGail.com
SOMETHING WICKED
THIS WAY COMES
brick Staten Island hospital building with dark windows and vines crawling up the outer walls. Bruce began to tell me about his investigations there. “That’s Seaview Hospital. It’s been abandoned for years. We were through it twice. The first time, our medium saw two kids in medical gowns, a man in white, and a woman who said that she was just passing through.”
“On our next trip, we brought a different medium. This one also saw the children in hospital gowns and the man in the white uniform, but this one added, 'The kids are pulling me toward
their safe room. They say that the man can’t abuse them there.’
Bruce continued, “That’s when a rock whizzed-by our heads thrown from inside the ward, which was pitch black. We knew that no one was on the premises but us, but we went on with the investigation anyway, going from room to room with pebbles, rocks, and bits of concrete being thrown toward us from the darkness, the whole time.”
“The higher we climbed, the bigger they got. By the time we finished on the third floor we were ready to get the hell out and headed toward the stairs. As we started down, I saw the cinder block that I’d seen on the way up. Then, the second our last foot
hit the bottom step there was a huge crash."
"Everybody whirled around and shined their flashlight toward the spot where it had landed. There, near the stairwell, was the same cinder block, wobbling back and forth, back and forth."
“With that we all bolted with me saying, 'An entity that’s capable of pushing a cinder block is capable of doing physical harm. We need to get out of here now.'
“Any plans to go back?” I asked.
“It’ll be a while,” Bruce answered ruefully.
© Medium Gail, MediumGail.com
A GHOST AT
THE OLD PRISON
As I turned left onto Elm Road suddenly the lower torso of an opaque, alabaster hued male walked briskly in front of my car from the right, aiming toward the spot in the stone wall in front of the prison where it drops low.
The apparition was reversed like a film negative, dark was white, and exposed a short, skinny man fading to nothing above the waist and below the ankles. The image of his baggy trousers was so sharp that I could see that they were made of natural fibers, puckered, puffy, and un-ironed. With no cars behind me or oncoming headlights, I was free to slow to a crawl. I gazed down at the dashboard clock. The
time was 8:10 p.m. Then I glanced back. The apparition was gone.
Perhaps this was a long, gone escapee for the evening hurrying back before roll call, memorializing the anniversary of his return or of his death -- but why?