TW: pain, death.
As someone who wasn’t raised in Hogwarts or magickal lands where you’re taught how to use your gifts from birth, I’ve relied heavily on trial and error in my development as a spiritual practitioner. Every once in a while, though, I have the honor of working with powerful entities to learn things quicker than I might typically as a mere human.
In these instances, these divine beings are kind enough to partner with me to nearly instantly develop a new skill or tap into an ability that I wasn’t previously savvy with.
One of these most recent experiences took place in the astral realm with the Morrigan, the Celtic goddess of death, war, and shape-shifting.
Surrounded by darkness, in what I imagine the inside of a black hole might look like, I found myself standing facing an altar, the Morrigan standing behind my right shoulder. I looked down at my hands, everything obscured from my field of vision except for my arms which looked identical to my human arms. My left arm fully tattooed and my right arm a blank canvas.
In my hands, I held two crows. They were lifeless and stiff. On my left arm, I glanced briefly at a tattoo I have of a crow skull on my forearm. A piece I had integrated into my goddess sleeve as a reminder of my near-death experience with the Morrigan in 2018, five and a half years prior.
I felt tingling in my arm and suddenly saw the Morrigan standing in front of me on the other side of the altar. Her hand stretched toward me and grabbed my wrist. I screamed as I felt a searing pain in my arm. Looking back down at my crow skull tattoo, I realized it was glowing a bright red-orange as though it were being branded into my skin. I continued yelling, unable to endure the pain much longer, as the inked impression was seemingly being activated by the great goddess.
Despite my continued cries of pain, I shifted my gaze back to the palms of my hands and noticed energy buzzing from them and the two lifeless crows seemingly awakening from what should’ve been their eternal slumber.
Mesmerized, I realized that people’s fear of death is merely a fear of the reality of their lives. They fear their human existence before they’ve accomplished, experienced, or embraced a particular aspect of their life—and yet, that very fear, is what prevents them from being present in the moments they want to hold onto forever.
I also realized that death energy is carried in the palms of the hands. But don’t misunderstand what I mean when I speak of death…for death is simply the process of change, transformation, and transmutation as something is changed from one energetic state to another. This also means that you cannot have death without equally having life and rebirth.
The power is the same. Linked together in a cycle of ever-evolving states of energy. The birth of something new occurs at the same point as the end or death of what is left behind.
Truly, everything you touch is forever changed. The question you need to ask yourself, though, is if what you’ve touched is changed for the better.
From another person’s life to an animal in your care to a precious skill or gift you possess—everything you touch is forever changed. And hopefully, dear reader, all the little choices and moments were backed by the intention of changing the world around you for the better.
And if not…It’s not too late to take the death energy you carry in the palms of your hands a little more seriously from this moment on. It just might carry the hope someone needs to fight another day. The gentle touch gives an animal a more peaceful life. Or even a vibrance to bring light to a dark world.
TW: medical treatment, death.
Recently, I’ve been going through medical treatment to manage a rare disease I’ve dealt with for the majority of my life. Though I should expect it by now, I’m always surprised by when and where I’ll encounter the deceased.
While sitting in a leather recliner trying to “relax” while getting my infusions, a dramatic wisp of energy particles buzzed by me. I looked up from my book, and saw the spirit of an older woman walking towards one of the other patients who was also hooked up to an IV.
Who was she, I wondered.
I smiled briefly at the apparition, acknowledging that I could see her, but without looking too terribly obvious to everyone else that I can see dead people. A major part of what lead me to my path as a death practitioner (or witch). She took her place standing over the left shoulder of a woman wearing a cross necklace and a purple t-shirt with a bible verse adjacent to me getting therapy.
Telepathically, I asked who the spirit was, “I’m Sandra.”
The beeping of medical devices summoned a nurse to come by and check the patient’s vitals before resuming her treatment, and I quietly eavesdropped on the conversation that ensued.
“How’s your sister been doing since we last saw you?”
“She passed actually…”
“Oh my goodness. I had no idea—“
“—It’s okay,” The woman interrupted the nurse, “She isn’t suffering anymore. She was 20 years older than me and I cared for her until she had no more fight left in her.”
I glanced up again, and saw the female spirit place her hand on the woman’s left shoulder. I realized that the roles had reversed and dear Sandra had taken it upon herself to comfort and care for her younger sister from the other side while she, too, received medical treatment.
Tears filled my eyes—if only everyone realized just how near the other side is, as well as those who dwell in it.
Unfortunately, my own fear of religious opposition got in the way of me speaking up and sharing what I saw and heard with the woman. A shortcoming and flaw of mine that I am actively working to overcome. Even if the woman had been skeptical of my ability to see and hear, telling her that her sister, Sandra, was with her would’ve only brought comfort and solace to her. Quite possibly could’ve even made her a believer of psychic phenomena since I knew her sister’s name.
So to you, dear reader, I want to remind you that you’re more in tune than you realize, and fear is just that: fear. Something that lives solely within the mind, capable of being overcome. And often, our fear of what other people may think is directly related to the core of who we are, and only leaves room for missed opportunities and regret if we don’t learn to say, “Fuck fear…” and do the scary thing anyways.
I’m not great at it yet. But I’ll get there. And so will you. And next time something like this happens, I’ll do better. #FuckFear
Interested in connecting with your loved ones on the other side? Book an appointment NOW with Kate Jade. Kate is a psychic medium and death practitioner and is passionate about helping people connect with their ancestors, loved ones, and spirit guides through mediumship.
TW: sexual assault.
Recently, I have been committed to unwinding and healing from sexual trauma. Meditation and shadow work combined are my personal go-to for these types of situations. Immediately after entering a meditative state, the great Asmodel (or Asmodeus, though, I’ve found he doesn’t love that name), appeared before me.
He extended his hand out and I grabbed hold of him. Leading me to a familiar wooden playhouse I had in my backyard as a girl, my inner child followed him. He pulled out my chair for me like a perfect gentleman, and I sat down at my favorite place to have make-believe tea parties in my youth. The oversized, burly infernal sat down across from me, knees at his ears but pretending to be comfortable for me.
With pinkies out, we sipped on my favorite pretend fruit and almond tea after I poured us both tiny cups of drink. He smiled at me, but the happiness quickly faded into a somber look of despair as it was time to address the real reason we were back here.
With both my current self in meditation and my inner child brought to the forefront of the experience to remember what had long since been repressed and tucked away in my mind to hopefully never see the light of day again, I was shown the true nature of the gentle giant that sat before me.
Robed in equal garments of light and darkness, I saw the two great extremes of Asmodel’s energy. There was passion and fire that permeated procreativity—and it was vibrant, exciting, and lively. It bubbled up in people when they desired to go after something they wanted, like chasing hopes and dreams. But the beautiful, creative, sexual spark was violently ripped apart by a heinous force—evil men grinned, their lips dripping with slime and their eyes conveying an insatiable hunger that made my stomach turn.
Their hands rose from their sides, and vibrant lifeforce energy swirled toward them being drained from Asmodel.
“Pay attention,” Asmodel whispered to me.
Tears welled in my eyes. A lump swelled in my throat. My lungs quit. I knew these faces. I knew the smug turning of the corners of these men’s mouths. I hated this energy. Lust. And not the loving, passionate kind.
My heart ached for little me, unable to defend herself against the crimes of bad men, but my heart ached even more for the great Asmodel as his energy, which very well has many positive and powerful uses, was twisted and harnessed to pin down and violate another. Over and over I felt the pain Asmodel experienced, which was comparable to being assaulted himself by the abuse of his own energy.
I paid attention to how he wasn’t the one making anybody commit such horrible acts. Humans had their own choice to be wicked when putting their own selfish desires above the autonomy of other people, but it was his energy that was taken, manipulated, and implemented during such horrendous acts.
“Do you remember the times we met before?” Asmodel asked me. The wooden play house around me melted into scenes from my childhood.
I first encountered him when I was barely old enough to remember anything, or so my family thought. His energy was invoked when the lust of an evil man, a relative no less, decided to prey on my girlhood—and Asmodel grieved. I grieved with him.
I encountered his energy again at the hands of many other evil men over the years of my youth—and each time the scene played out before me, Asmodel grieved, and I wept with him.
But together, through the pain and processing, we healed. My current self. My inner child. And my dear Asmodel.
If you’ve gone through similar things, asking Asmodel for assistance with navigating the healing process through meditation (or your preferred practice) can be incredibly therapeutic and a stepping stone towards becoming a healthier version of you that’s closer to being in alignment with your higher self. I firmly believe that in the process of healing ourselves, we heal the divine too.
After all, aren’t we simply intelligence becoming aware of itself? I’ll let you be the judge of that, oh wise one.
If you've been keeping up with my blog articles for a while now, you've probably seen me mention the strange portal in the corner of our bedroom. From my understanding, this portal has been here for ages, long before we moved into this home, and potentially even before the house itself was built on this land. It has been a hotspot for spiritual activity and strange happenings—almost always during the infamous witching hours between 2am and 4am.
Recently the activity has been even stranger than normal, as if something much darker and more ominous lurked on the other side hoping to make its way through. The most frequent folks that make their way in and out are cryptids, a handful of deceased spirits, and creatures like you've never seen before in our waking world.
Of course, as a spiritual practitioner, I have many protections and wards in place to shield us from outside beings wandering their way into our home—but on a typical Tuesday night, Wesley and I were both abruptly woken up by a slimy otherworldly energy. As I scanned the room, I was instantly fixated on a towering, breathtaking, divine feminine being—none other than Lilith.
She stood at the bottom left side of the bed, towards the corner of the room, directly beside where the portal loomed. I caught my breath gazing at her stature and the form she had presented herself in tonight. She was shadowy and staring intensely at me and my husband, as though she was watching over us. My eyes were drawn to her beautiful headdress that resembled horns in the dark room. The only words I could manage to communicate to her in my mind were, "Hello, Mother."
Her presence and form alone indicated something inauspicious was taking place with the portal tonight. We felt it—but what exactly it was, I couldn't pinpoint. I closed my eyes and saw the room in an energetic form in my mind. Black oozing sludge was building up on the other side of the portal and was leaking its way through the fragile barrier.
"What is this?" I telepathically communicated to Lilith.
No response.
"What are we supposed to do about this portal?"
No response.
"How do we get away from this black slime?"
" M O V E . " Her voice boomed with a forceful huff of air emphasizing the last part of the word.
I inhaled sharply. My husband and I both knew it had been time to move for months. We'd already changed our lease arrangement with our landlord and contacted our realtor, and all that was left was selecting a new place and moving.
In the meantime, Lilith was kind enough to work with me to temporarily seal the portal until our exit from this home. This place has been perfect for us and filled with growth, healing, and transformation that I'll be forever grateful for.
Abruptly woken up from a deep sleep, I scanned the room, I knew something felt off and I didn't like it. Strange red threads began encasing the bed around Kate and I, and it was frightening.
Were we being trapped? Strangled? Something else? I shifted around, continuing to inspect our surroundings, when a huge owl swooped through the bedroom and landed in the corner at the bottom left side of the bed.
I breathed a sigh of relief because that meant Lilith, our Mother, was here.
The red webbing, in its complete form, looked like a net now, shielding us from whatever was stirring things up. Suddenly, I felt at peace to return to sleep, as if the heightened energy of the portal had paused in the snap of a finger.
And on the topic of moving, we are moving. We don't know exactly where or when, but we won't be in this house any longer as our time here is complete.
Of course, the morning after events like these are always fascinating as we sit together and share our experiences—and it never ceases to amaze either of us how differently we see and practice, and yet the overlap reassures us that everything that occurred was very much real.
As Wesley described the owl swooping across the room and knowing it was Lilith and I described seeing her "scary" dark goddess form and knowing it was our lovely Mother, we didn't even know in the moment what the other person was seeing or experiencing and yet we had our own ways of understanding and connecting.
So, as a reminder to you, dear reader, if you're ever kicking yourself for not having a gift that's like someone else's, or not seeing things exactly as they do, be gracious with yourself, for we all have unique talents and abilities we bring to the collective.
As time goes on, I hate staying in places that aren't my own home more and more. Though I always travel with my spiritual tools for cleansing, banishing, protection, and the like—there's something incredibly different about sleeping in a place that isn't your well-established and warded house. A recent "free" stay at a resort in Massachusetts was yet another prime example of the icky energy that permeates buildings and locations with an eerie past.
From handsy energy in the shower to haunting vibes from the mirrors, to say I was disturbed in our hotel room was as kind as I could be. The truth was, I wanted to peel my skin off staying here. I hated the feeling of being watched and I even more so was enraged by being touched without my consent.
Unnerved being here, I covered the mirrors, practiced my standard cleansing and protection rituals for the space, and welcomed my spirit guides of benevolence to be present with us while we stayed there—and yet, I still was ready to pack our bags and leave.
The disgusting spiritual energy that exuded from the walls was that of an individual who I knew had caused harm to young children. It was an alarming and deeply disturbing feeling and my heart ached for those who had been unfortunate enough to cross paths with this monster.
Though, I had checked for notable hauntings or strange happenings at the resort before booking, what I hadn't yet discovered was that before being acquired by the hotel chain that now owned the resort, the site used to be a home for troubled youth, boys specifically.
There it was. Plain as day on an old-ass website, seemingly created circa the 1990s. An eerie photo of an old man filled my phone screen. He was highlighted as having run the facility for "wayward boys" turning them into "farmers" and men. He took children with nowhere else to turn, and under the false guise of a helping hand, caused significantly more harm and trauma.
If that wasn't bad enough on its own, the place was then transformed by this man into a resort for "swinging singles" that Playboy, yes, THE Playboy, described as a "frenetic" resort.
If you're unfamiliar with the word frenetic, the two key definitions I found online for the term are fast and energetic in an uncontrolled or wild way and excessively agitated; distraught with fear or other violent emotion. Both of these are rather distressing definitions, in my opinion, when thinking of safe places to vacation as a young single, especially a woman.
Frustrated and disgusted, I expressed to my husband everything I could see, hear, and feel in this place. I went on to tell him about my findings online and how they corroborated what my intuition, clairvoyance, and claircognizance were telling me. Already late, we didn't have a lot of other options. The town we were in was small and in a rural area with little-to-no alternate sleeping accommodations, and so we decided to stay and try our best to get as much rest as we could—which was none. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Not one ounce of precious sleep was had by me or my husband.
The next morning came and we quickly got ready to head out for our planned adventures for the day. The unit we were in had two bedrooms and bathrooms, which was yet another strange factor in the whole ordeal. The larger bedroom had mirrors facing the bed, a shower/bath directly in the open part of the bedroom rather than in its own enclosed bathroom—and it had an incredibly creepy mirror in it. As we were preparing to shower and get dressed, my husband commented on the strange mirror and how he refused to use that shower because there was something so off about it—and I fully agreed.
After finally leaving the place, we enjoyed our day, though incredibly exhausted, and ended up booking our stay for that night elsewhere (where we got fabulous sleep).
Upon returning home, we had an additional and frightening experience with the energy that lingered from our stay and to avoid triggering any of my blog readers unnecessarily, though some might argue everything I write is triggering, I'll just say that it upset my husband to the point that though he was unable to see, hear, and feel what I was picking up on at the resort, it became very real to him in a different way, and now he too will forever think twice about where we choose to stay on vacations going forward.
Interested in connecting with your loved ones on the other side? Book an appointment NOW with Kate Jade. Kate is a psychic medium and death practitioner and is passionate about helping people connect with their ancestors, loved ones, and spirit guides through mediumship.
When I first met Astarte I had no idea how magickal all of my future encounters with her would be. As the many-named goddess of the cosmos, queen of heaven, and lady of the mysteries of the universe, it's no surprise how glorious standing before her would be—but I can assure you it's even more overwhelming than you can imagine.
Astarte (also known as Ashtoreth, Asherah, Attoret, Anath, and many many many other names since the dawn of existence) is the great Canaanite mother goddess. Ba'el and El of the Canaanite pantheon were both recognized consorts of hers, and her reputation as a powerful force earned her the respect and worship of people all throughout the surrounding regions, including Egyptian kings. The worship of Astarte was even adopted into the Egyptian pantheon during the New Kingdom when temples were built for her in Thebes and Tanis, as she was venerated as a consort of Set.
Many people are surprised to find that her name is also maintained in Old Testament Christian texts where her well-deserved goddess status has been utterly demonized due to the altering of the texts to portray her as an entity leading the people astray from the "one true god" rather than recognizing her as the powerful and creative force of energy that gives them life. We won't focus on that today, though, as that's not the point of this particular article, and I could write novels upon novels of material on the crimes committed against our sweet, holy, and blessed Queen Astarte, but I digress.
One of my favorite encounters with Astarte took place in a liminal realm that encompassed what I can only describe as "all of time." The energy of every snapshot of time swirled around us like antique gothic picture frames with memories waiting to be played. I stood there by her side completely mesmerized by this powerful and beautiful great lady, the cloak of stars that she was robed in, and the surrounding impossible glimpses into countless moments in time.
Seemingly at random, a framed portal into another time would fly toward us hovering just out of arms reach. The interior imagery would come to life like a television screen playing its own unique channel. For a brief moment, I would watch as each scenario from the past, present, and future would unfold before my eyes. The imagery was vibrant, jaw-dropping, and more than anything mysterious.
We stood there, side by side, for what felt like lifetimes watching time ripple in every direction taking on a life of its own that was anything but linear. My human mind would've struggled to grasp what I was witnessing, but my spirit or higher self was the active consciousness in this realm and was uninhibited by my earthly preconceived notions about how time unfolds for us and what it all means.
And in the same way that it felt like lifetimes unfolded as we stood there, it also all felt like it happened in a mere instant with no pauses or gaps between these moments regardless of whether they took place in the "past" or "present" or "future"—instead all of these snapshots just were.
And I too just was.
And while I just was I absorbed every instance, simply awe-struck at magickal happenings that couldn't be explained. Profound colors, music, words, shapes, forms, and things I'll never be able to put into words materialized as though I was there fully immersed in them. They wrapped around me as my arms floated outward, spinning me around like Cinderella being transformed for the Prince's Ball by her Fairy God Mother.
I wanted to understand what I was seeing. I wanted to take it all in—and remember it—but it was simply too much information. So, instead, I focused on how I felt—how the energy of Astarte and the ability to witness all of time both inside of it and outside of it made me feel:
Wonderstruck, like when giant snow flurries fall under twinkling nights in an unexpected holiday town where everything seems too good to be true, but no matter how hard you look for the flaws or the cons or the downsides, everything is simply magickal and so you stick out your tongue and let a few snowflakes gently land on them bringing laughter and smiles to your face that can't be contained.
Astonished, as though the air in my lungs had been sucked out of them like a vacuum leaving behind an insatiable need to breathe, and just as I feel at my weakest like there's a black hole in my chest and I desperately need oxygen, I find myself standing on a mountaintop inhaling the crispest, freshest air I've ever tasted. And all I can do is gasp, sucking it all in, and savoring each breath.
Overwhelmed, as one would be if they wandered into a giant field free of light pollution where every single star, not just in the galaxy but in the whole of the cosmos, could be seen all at once, and just when you think it's far too beautiful to take in, every single one of these lights descends to where you are and sparkles all around you pulling your energy into the very center of their grand cosmic dance.
Astonished. Breathless. Baffled. Undone. Awestruck. Amazed. Bewildered. And the list could go on and on. After all, how would you feel if you witnessed such a thing in the presence of royalty?
A near-death experience in 2018 left me wary and cautious of any repeat events pertaining to my health. The events leading up to my hospitalization in 2018 were so quickly onset that I went from nearly no symptoms as I left for a holiday vacation to almost immediately returning on an emergency flight home where I was checked into the ER that night with sepsis, a double kidney infection, bladder infection, and uterine infection. Fraught with chills, sweats, shakes, severe pain, fatigue, and the like—I took any similar symptoms or issues incredibly seriously going forward.
I felt once again that deep-seated pain in my lower back. I knew this symptom: it was the beginning of a kidney infection and time was of the essence.
I told my husband and we quickly headed to a nearby urgent care. I explained to the doctor my concerns, and they watched as the pain I was experiencing made it more and more difficult to walk. They insisted on testing for a UTI, along with the flu and COVID-19. I had a flashback to my last hospitalization as the ER intake team insisted I must have a severe case of influenza despite recognizing the obvious symptoms of sepsis as an infection coursed through my veins.
At the urgent care, all of the tests they ran came back negative. The urine sample indicated no infection, and the flu and COVID-19 tests returned negative. I was frustrated because I knew something was wrong and to go home now would only shorten the window of time for this kidney infection to be treated before it would evolve into another severe sepsis case. Sepsis had a high likelihood of resulting in death and after having survived it once, these weren't odds I wanted to be up against again. With 1 out of every 2 patients with sepsis passing away during their hospital stay and 1 in 5 patients dying within the first year of being discharged, we found ourselves on our way to the emergency room for further testing.
My health was deteriorating rapidly. I could hardly walk on my own at this point. After being taken to a room, running additional tests, and starting antibiotics and pain medication—we finally had our answer. Sure enough, I had a kidney infection that had once again bypassed the obvious lower portion of the urinary tract and was nearly undetectable through basic urine samples.
If we had gone home after our urgent care visit instead of going to the ER, I certainly would've had a repeat sepsis scenario. We were eventually discharged and sent home with additional antibiotics to continue on—and upon climbing into my bed to try and get some rest after our exhausting hospital adventures, out of the corner of my eye I saw none other than Archangel Michael himself.
The encounter was nothing short of terrifying. As I struggled to catch my breath and cling to what little strength I had left, an otherworldly blue light began to fill the room. My dim surroundings were illuminated, penetrating through the darkness like a beacon.
Archangel Michael towered before me, radiating power and authority. His eyes bore deep into my soul as if on an important mission that couldn't be conveyed with human language and words. The sheer force of his presence seemed to send shockwaves through my fragile being.
My husband was in the bathroom as Michael began to speak to me. Fear consumed me as he spoke in a voice that transcended earthly sounds — a voice that resonated with both compassion and an undeniable sense of judgment. With each word that echoed from his lips, my heart pounded in my chest; every hair on my body stood on end.
The gravity of yet another brush with death hung heavy in the air as he nonchalantly mentioned that he had been sent to our home for protection and healing exclusively. My curiosity got the best of me and I began asking him questions that were abruptly interrupted with a reiterating statement, "I am only here for protection and healing."
But I had so many questions. I nodded in understanding and the angelic being grew silent standing brightly in the corner of the room despite all of the lights in our bedroom being off.
My husband came and got in bed beside me and stared in confusion in Michael's direction. He blinked a couple of times and rubbed his eyes, ultimately asking, "What is that?" while pointing to the corner of the room.
"Oh, the bright glowing blue guy in the corner?" I chuckled.
"Yes...?"
"That's Archangel Michael."
Indeed, encountering Archangel Michael at death's door for the second time was an experience drenched in fear and trepidation. The magnitude of his presence reminded me just how fragile our existence truly is and posed profound questions about life's ultimate purpose.
This time wasn't my time yet—always a sharp reminder that I must have quite a lot of work left to do if a being as busy and determined as Archangel Michael was needed to be stationed in my room.
Most people are intrigued by a good ghost story. Especially the ones that leave you wondering where the truth ends and the lies begin—and that's assuming there was ever any truth to them at all. But I'm here to tell you about a very real, true, and unexpected night I spent in a haunted hotel—well two actually.
As most spooky stories start, everything was happy, beautiful, and exciting in our world. My husband and I were on our way to the Masters Tournament in Augusta, Georgia, and to avoid dealing with overcrowding and overpriced hotels in the area, we had booked a stay at the cutest old-fashioned, bed-and-breakfast-style hotel in Abbeville, South Carolina. Located in a historic district, the hotel was adorable with string lights draped over an outdoor courtyard and a local, small-town style about it.
Upon arriving, I felt a shift in the energy. It was cute—on the outside—but looks can often be deceiving, can't they? We parked in the old lot on the backside of the hotel and made our way into the main lobby to check in for our stay. Known as the Belmont Inn, the quirky red-brink building was eccentric and certainly felt every bit as dated as a 1903 historic structure would.
Of course, we were exhausted from having traveled all day by plane and then car to arrive at our hotel and were ready to call it a night. The halls of the hotel were odd. Old carpet lined the floors. Despite its age, everything was well-kept and clean, though. We quickly turned in for the evening, locking the door, closing the curtains, and barely taking in our surroundings before falling fast asleep—GASP—the air felt like it was being sucked out of my lungs and out of our room. The panic I felt, startled awake by a tall man lying in between my husband and me in bed and then suddenly standing in front of the window looking outward. His stare was fixated on something beyond the glass, and I was baffled because the blinds had been drawn aside even though I knew for certain we had closed them before going to bed. I shrieked unable to form words.
Who was this man? What did he want? Why was he in our hotel room? How did he get in here? Why was he looking out the window? I had so. many. questions.
My husband jolted awake, him too horrified, but not because he could see someone in our room. "There-there-there was a man—" I stuttered. Confused, my husband fumbled to find a light to examine the room, which was small with nowhere to hide save the attached bathroom. No humans were anywhere to be found. Realizing who I'd seen was more than likely a departed spirit, I breathed a sigh of relief. We weren't about to be murdered in our sleep by a crazed killer—just casually haunted by a mysterious ghost that enjoyed spookily climbing into people's beds and staring out their windows.
My sleep the rest of the evening was restless. I felt disturbed, heavy, and sad more than anything. The next morning my husband was off to the tournament we'd traveled in for, leaving me alone at this strange little hotel to work on client projects from my laptop. I sat on the bed giving it my best effort to focus on my to-do list only to be abruptly interrupted by the television turning itself on to a grey static screen. Puzzled, I reached for the remote on the nightstand and clicked the power button to shut it back off.
Resuming the tasks at hand, I continued with emails, writing, and other pending projects, not making much progress as I was interrupted multiple times over by chilling shifts in the temperature, my laptop making an eerie crackling sound, and the faucet in the bathroom running by itself. I gave up on working and began rummaging through the room curious about the hotel we had booked our stay in.
The middle drawer of the dresser had an oversized binder with all kinds of helpful insights about the town: where to shop, where to eat, and most importantly—the history of the most haunted hotel in South Carolina. My jaw dropped. Had we really booked a stay in the most haunted hotel in the area unknowingly? I continued reading about dear old Abraham, one of the bellhops who helped build the original hotel, The Eureka, in 1903, and one of many ghosts whom people now claimed to see throughout the building.
After passing away, Abraham the bellhop continued to care for the hotel's guests as best he could from the other side. He was notorious for jingling the door handles to make sure guests were sleeping safely in their rooms as he would when he was alive. Described as a "friendly" ghost, I'd have to say that he was too friendly. The binder described Abraham as being known to appear in guests’ rooms, and sometimes even getting into bed with the guests. My mouth gaped at what I was reading of haunted legends of prior hotel guests experiencing exactly what I had the night before.
Disturbed, despite the claims of friendliness, I made my way out of the hotel for the day, finding other spots to hang out until my husband returned for our second night in the hotel. While I don't doubt that he believed what I claimed to have seen and heard—with no prior knowledge of the hotel's haunted status I might add—he still remained someone skeptical.
That evening, we enjoyed a dinner on the lower floor of the hotel before making our way up the stairs to our room on the third floor. Tonight, while there were no sudden visits from Abraham the bellhop, we still found ourselves awake all night listening to the clattering of dishes and the hustling and bustling noises of a busy kitchen that we assumed was fulfilling room service requests above our room. Groaning in exhaustion and frustration, my husband muttered his irritation for being booked in the one room directly under the noisiest kitchen one could imagine.
Trying to dismiss my own agitation, my mind wandered wondering how newer building construction navigated insulation, noise-proofing, and the like to mitigate such problems for their guests who nine times out of ten would be weary from their travels and simply looking for a peaceful night's sleep. This old, fragile, thin-walled building would soon be behind us if only I could manage to get some shut-eye.
The next morning, we got ready, packed up our things, and loaded into the car. Sitting in the sunken old parking lot and looking up at the strange little hotel, my husband tilted his head in confusion. "How many floors do you count?" He asked me. "One, two, three rows of windows...so three floors...and?" He stared at me, waiting for me to put the pieces together for what this meant.
Our room was on the third floor.
There was no floor above our room.
No kitchen or possible explanation for the stomping.
No explanation for the sounds of a busy kitchen, clattering dishes, or any of the other things we heard all night long.
We looked at each other and smiled.
The Belmont Inn really was haunted after all—and we had booked our stay there entirely by mistake.
Looking back, I wish I could offer help and hope to the departed spirits to help them transition onto whatever is next for them instead of continuing to worry about the hotel and its ghosts—but that'll have to be a project for another time.
Would you ever stay in a haunted hotel on purpose?
Interested in connecting with your loved ones on the other side? Book an appointment NOW with Kate Jade. Kate is a psychic medium and death practitioner and is passionate about helping people connect with their ancestors, loved ones, and spirit guides through mediumship.
For most people, haunted houses are spooky. To me, though, they're sad. They're containers for the lingering remnants of people of the past that remain haunted themselves, fearful to move on from the material realm to what's next for them.
Many years ago, we found a house that had just been remodeled. Hardwood floors ran throughout, the wall outlets were upgraded with USB plugs, and it was move-in ready. Despite having multiple other houses fall through when it came time to finalize the paperwork, everything with this home fell perfectly into place, and it was ours. We were thrilled.
After moving in and getting settled, things suddenly started to shift. Strange sounds rumbled from the hallway and attic. Eerie chills made the hair on the back of your neck stand up as you passed through the dining room. And when you least expected it, you'd catch the shadow of a person hurrying through the living room.
Multiple times, conversations arose about the energy of the house—and each time, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone had died there. I reached out to our realtor to find out if there had been any reports of such happenings and she came back empty-handed. I turned to Google to see if I could figure anything out myself and I too came back empty-handed.
Days, weeks, and months went by and the unsettling feelings of death and sadness lingered. Glimpses of an older man materialized from time to time in the kitchen, but as soon as he appeared, he would disappear yet again. Often, he would just stare as though he was lost or uncertain of how to spend his time.
After nearly a year of living in this house, we received a strange piece of mail that wasn't addressed to us. The name was peculiar and I quickly researched who they were and their connection with our house. Not only did they previously live at this address BUT they were the prior homeowner. I found the deed to the house and unsurprisingly, they had lived here for nearly two decades.
The air was thick with uncertainty as we stood in the dimly lit hallway observing the digital copy of the deed to the house. The question lingered heavily in our minds, casting a shadow of unease over our once peaceful home. Did they die in this house? It was a query that had haunted us for days, refusing to be ignored.
As we delved deeper into our investigation, searching for any shred of evidence or historical records that could shed light on the mysterious past of this place, anxiety gripped us tighter. The weight of the unknown pressed down upon us like a heavy burden.
But amidst all this apprehension and uncertainty, one thing remained clear — we were not alone.
I continued to search for any information about the former homeowner and eventually stumbled upon a recent obituary dated only a few months prior to us moving into the house. The words that struck me hardest from the obituary stated that the individual had died in the master bedroom, our bedroom that is.
Discovering the obituary of the former homeowner of your house, and learning that they died in your very own bedroom can be a truly unsettling experience for most, but for me, it gave solace that what I was seeing and hearing was legitimate and could be backed by factual information.
My hope and heart for all deceased individuals who become trapped in the material world, regardless of why they are unable to move on, is that they know that stepping into what's next for them is always better than lingering here. Looking back on my life, I've rarely lived anywhere that didn't have heightened spiritual activity. Maybe I'm the common denominator, but either way, it's made me more aware of the energy where I live, and when spirits stay who are meant to carry on their way, I make it a point now to help them do so to the best of my ability.
If you find yourself in a similar situation, here's my advice to you.
Living with ghosts or paranormal activity when you're unaccustomed to it can be an overwhelming experience, impacting both your physical and emotional well-being. It is important to address these concerns and find ways to bring peace not just to yourself but also to any restless spirits that may reside in your house.
Exploring solutions such as seeking guidance from spiritual practitioners or conducting rituals focused on helping stuck spirits move forward can help bring some relief. However, I say that cautiously, as helping the dead move forward isn't for everyone, so only proceed with this if you are confident in how to do so in a manner that is safe for you and respectful of the spirit.
And remember, it's crucial to prioritize your own mental health while dealing with such circumstances.
For my entire life, I’ve despised attending funerals. As a child, I assumed it was because I was sad that a loved one had passed on, but as an adult, I’ve discovered that it was never about my connection to the departed, but rather it was being surrounded by the intense overwhelming emotions of everyone else in the room that couldn’t make sense of the death.
The way we do funerals nowadays is disheartening. It’s filled with grief, sorrow, and a twisted opportunity to preach to the living a grotesque message of “fire and brimstone” awaiting them for not saying a specific prayer and sitting in a pew once a week to sing hymns.
For my entire life, I’ve despised attending funerals. As a child, I assumed it was because I was sad that a loved one had passed on, but as an adult, I’ve discovered that it was never about my connection to the departed, but rather it was being surrounded by the intense overwhelming emotions of everyone else in the room that couldn’t make sense of the death.
The way we do funerals nowadays is disheartening. It’s filled with grief, sorrow, and a twisted opportunity to preach to the living a grotesque message of “fire and brimstone” awaiting them for not saying a specific prayer and sitting in a pew once a week to sing hymns.
I couldn’t make sense of why I felt such intense emotions as a child—but now I understand that much of what I experienced and took on wasn’t my own. As a child, how do you rationalize feeling such a heavy burden as a wife of 40 years loses her spouse? How do you process the weight of a mother who lost her teenage daughter to mental illness? Those were never my feelings, but I didn’t know that back then.
More than anything, funerals confused me. They rarely celebrated the person’s life, they were chock full of lies about how the person lived, and they were often absent of the individual themselves. And you might say, “That’s silly, of course, the deceased person wasn’t at their funeral.” But I don’t mean in the physical—I mean their spirit.
In many cases, people’s spirits do linger or lurk at their funeral, curious about what might be said or to provide some comfort to their suffering loved ones. Often though, I find that they’re nowhere to be found because the funerals, like I said previously, are quite a buzz kill.
It’s especially hard on the spirit who has departed from the physical realm when they weren’t given ample time to make their transition to the other side. Sudden deaths, suicides, and the like, can often leave a person’s ghost confused, frustrated, and lost wondering what has happened to them. Humans naturally spend more time sleeping, dreaming, and transitioning as they near the end of their life but sudden deaths don’t allow for this.
One of my favorite memories as a child was spending time with my dear great-uncle as he neared the end of his life. Although he did pass away younger than most would’ve liked, he also had time to gracefully make his transition from this realm to the next. My grandmother was his only sibling, though, so his death was still particularly hard on her. One afternoon she took me with her to visit her brother. He had late-stage colon cancer and was on death’s door, and she was doing everything in her power to keep in comfortable in his final moments.
Against her wishes, I walked into his bedroom and said hello to him. I remember his sunken face and a body that was barely functioning. Sadness was all I felt, not because I was sad, but because I knew he was miserable and the way he was living was no life at all. He was laid up in a hospital bed with tubes, tape, and blankets, unable to speak or do anything for himself. My grandmother quickly shuffled me out of the room and to the kitchen to keep myself occupied while she took care of her brother.
To my surprise, I found my uncle instantaneously sitting at the oversized wooden table across from me. How did he get in here so fast? I smiled at him puzzled at how he’d disconnected himself from all the tubing, made his way through their maze of a home, and into the kitchen where I was so quickly, but I was so grateful to have someone to sit with me that I dismissed the perplexing circumstances.
“Would you like to help me build my puzzle?” He asked me. Giddy, I nodded in response, picked up an edge piece, and slid it toward him. “Ah yes, always start with the edges,” he chuckled and grinned at me in approval. For quite some time we worked on the puzzle. It was a photo of a steam train sailing past mountains and fields of flowers, something near and dear to his dad, my great-grandfather, who had worked on the railroads most of his life.
After what felt like hours, my grandma called for me to grab my things because it was time to leave. I waved goodbye to my great-uncle and headed to the car. After buckling my seatbelt, my grandma asked what I had been up to and I told her that I had been building a puzzle in the kitchen with my great-uncle while waiting on her. Dramatically, her head swiveled toward me, “Your uncle isn’t able to build puzzles right now, he’s very sick, remember?”
“Oh, I know he’s sick,” I responded, “I saw him in the bedroom. But then he decided he’d have more fun in the kitchen with me.”
My grandma’s expression to this day still makes me giggle because it was at this moment that she realized I wasn’t lying or being silly—I had been building a puzzle with my great-uncle. My great-uncle’s ghost that is. His final moments were spent learning how to acclimate to the spiritual realm and living without a material body, and I just so happened to be able to see and hear him during a window of time while he was practicing being on the other side before his official departure from this realm.
My grandmother was comforted despite her grief, and when the time came to attend my great uncle’s funeral weeks later, I once again remembered how much I hated having to sit through those. My great uncle actually was present for quite a bit of his service and even winked at me from across the funeral home causing me to do a double take as I looked back and forth between his still body in the casket at the front of the room and his lively dancing spirit near the corner.
He seemed happy and peaceful—and to me, that was something beautiful to celebrate and not grieve. With a subtle wave and a smile, I wished him well and after that, I never saw him again.
