“Trey! Trey! Come here!”
The cry was urgent, and I knew something bad was happening. Ian was in the bedroom studying for his veterinary technician license exam, and I was in my studio across the hall working on a video project. The sound of his shout sent me into emergency mode, and I ran to his aid within seconds. When I flung the door open, I saw that Ian had pressed himself back against the wall at the head of the bed, trying to get as far away from something as possible—something I couldn’t see.
“What’s happening, Ian?” I asked, adrenaline surging. He pointed ahead of him at the empty space between the foot of the bed and the doorway.
“Oh, my God! Stay back! Don’t come any closer,” he shouted to whatever was terrifying him. I quickly went back into the studio and grabbed a sage smudge stick from my altar and sped back, lighting the sage and blowing on it to fan the embers into a flame. I told Ian to describe what he was seeing.
There was the spirit of a young man staggering toward him, pale and missing both of his hands, severed above the wrist. Blood was squirting out of the stumps all over the walls, floor and bed beneath Ian’s feet. The man was in agony, confused and desperate. He was stuck in his death state, and was coming to Ian for help, attracted to his energy like a beacon. My intuition was that this individual died suddenly, either through an overdose or by homicide.
I felt empathy and compassion for this soul, who was in a state of torment. With the sage, I guided him through the house and to the side door in the kitchen, which leads to the carport and driveway. I told the man he was dead and couldn’t stay here, and that he needed to cross over to his loved ones. As Ian was still in the bedroom, traumatized, I wasn’t sure if the crossover worked, as I can’t see the dead like he does. I closed the door and turned around to head back to assist my husband, and just as I did so, Ian appeared in the kitchen entryway, pale and distressed.
“Are you okay, baby?” I asked. But barely as the words left my mouth, the metal door to the carport flung open behind me. Ian’s eyes widened, and he exclaimed that the man was coming back into the house.
Smoldering sage in hand, I spun around and confronted the spirit, again telling him he needed to leave and that he could not stay here. All the while, I was blowing sage smoke toward him. “You are dead, and must go to be with those who love you,” I told the spirit, and prayed to our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and the Blessed Virgin Mary to come and assist this lost soul and help bring him home. i reassured the man that he would be welcomed into Heaven, and that those who loved him are waiting for him. It took some time and sensitivity, but the spirit finally left and walked down the driveway toward the street. Ian saw a brilliant light meet the man at the street, and surround him as he walked. Then he was gone, taken home in love.
I closed the door and walked with Ian back to the bedroom. “There’s blood everywhere!” he said, horrified. He asked for a towel, which I gave him from the linen cabinet. He started to try to clean up the blood, which like the spirit of the man, I could not see; everything looked dry and normal with my eyes. But when Ian handed the towel back to me and asked for another, the towel was soaking wet. So wet, in fact, it dripped all over my hands and onto the floor in a puddle. But I didn’t see blood, just water—from a dry towel I had just handed to him moments before. Ian still saw blood, however, and told me that I had blood all over my hands where I gripped the soaking fabric. I threw the towel in the laundry basket and got another, and wiped it all over the surfaces in the bedroom. This time, the towel became only damp, and Ian remarked that the blood was beginning to disappear.