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 Sharon's Paranormal Story

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PaulDaleRoberts



Number of posts : 1147
Registration date : 2009-05-17

PostSubject: Sharon's Paranormal Story   Tue Mar 18, 2014 10:33 pm

Sharon's Paranormal Story
By Paul Dale Roberts, HPI Esoteric Detective
HPI (Hegelianism Paranormal Intelligence) International
https://www.facebook.com/#!/groups/HPIinternational/
Paranormal Hotline: (916) 203-7503 - 4 Advice & Investigations
Email: pauld5606@comcast.net

My story starts, I guess, well after I was born. When I saw my first ghost. I was nine, going on ten. It was May 01, 1982. He was a huge black guy who gave the impression of having chains on, like bandoliers, across his chest, but I couldn't see them. Initially, he scared the living daylights out of me. He said he knew who I was, who my family was, he'd been in our home, had watched us, and decided he was going to protect me. Ok, so I asked him if it was okay if I told my Mommy about him. He said it was and so I did. Mistake. My mom told me it was my imagination.

Nope, sure wish it had been, but it wasn't. My mom told me, "there's always at least one psychic in every generation [of our family]." Yep, thanks. I wish that warning had been in The Book. No, not the Bible. The Bewleys of Cumberland and their Irish and Other Descendants, by Sir Edmund Thomas Bewley. That book. The author is one of my Irish cousins from a long time ago. There's another saying, "All Bewleys look alike," and we sure do. And a bunch of the Irish-American Bewleys, of whom I am one, are psychic. And, from what I can tell, terrified of it.

I'm not. I've had to live with it since I was nine years old. 1982. That's a really long time to be psychic and not being able to find out you weren't crazy, just psychic, when you're almost twenty-one years old.

But the times I grew up in were, in their own way, much more dangerous than they are now. Because when I was about to hit the double digits, The Banks Failed. The song by John Cougar Mellencamp, Rain On The Scarecrow, is about the families who lost their family farms that they'd worked for generations because The Banks Failed. But in Omaha, in 1982, much worse than just the farm families losing their farms was happening. A Satanic coven was in operation, running a child prostitution ring that reached all the way into the Republican Party to our vice president, George W. Bush. It was based out of Omaha. A man named Lawrence King, Jr. was involved. He ran the Franklin Credit Union in North Omaha. He was a Satanist. Go ahead and look it up. A former Nebraska Senator, John DeCamp, wrote a book about it. The book's named The Franklin Cover Up. It's all true. Why do I believe it?

Because that's the very coven that attacked me in August 2012. That's why. And the man who founded that coven was named Raymond Neilson. He's the father of one of my friends. My teacher (in religion) killed him. Why? For being the most active Satanist in the city, that's why. And it was my knowing that fact that made them, the coven, leave me alone finally. That took months, but they finally left me alone.

This takes me back to 2007. Samhain, also known as Halloween to Christians. Ghost Hunters Live: Waverly Hills. I watched the whole telecast, live, while on the phone with my best friend. We both saw the priest in the body chute that night. To clarify, I've been all over the United States, but never Kentucky. While my friend recounted the priest's biography, including his death, I heard his message: Stay away from Waverly Hills, there's demons there and they'll hurt you.

I was raised Irish Catholic by two pre-Vatican II Catholics, my parents. Who were much older, by almost an entire generation, than the parents of my alleged "peer group's" collection of Baby Boomer parents. My parents were the Greatest Generation. So when A CATHOLIC PRIEST, ghost or not, tells me to stay away from a well-known haunted location because there's demons there, I'm gonna listen. No questions. I'll do what he says.

A few years later, in January 2011, my best friend told me there's a rumor Waverly Hills was going to be torn down. I immediately thought of that Catholic priest I'd seen, and was very worried for him. What would happen to him if Waverly Hills went bye-bye? It took me a week, but I called. I made sure it was well after hours (around 21:00 Central) and on a weekend (Sunday night). I didn't want to risk having a ghost get on the phone, but I did want to make sure The Priest would be okay.

To my surprise, a human male actually answered the phone. As I was about to let him go, after making sure Waverly Hills was going to be okay, I said, "and would you please tell the owners that they have a Catholic priest in their death tunnel that doesn't want anyone to be there?" The security guard freaked. He wanted to know how I knew that, so I told him exactly how I knew: I'd seen him. Dressed in an old-fashioned cassock from the 1920's or 1930's, like you never see in the States anymore, with red piping trim, a red cummerbund, and a huge wooden Rosary that hung from his cummerbund all the way down to his ankle. He was a Monsignor. He was the reason I'd called, and the reason I'd called very late at night on a weekend was to make sure I'd be okay, "because ghosts can get on the phone." I shouldn't have said that, because The Priest got on the phone. And we had a really interesting conversation. Especially when I saw that we'd known each other three lifetimes ago (for me) and one previous lifetime ago (for him). He, in his previous lifetime, had been the man that was the love of my life; we were going to run away and get married. Instead, because I was the Daughter of the Lord of the Big House, and a member of the Anglo-Irish Ascendancy, and he'd been an Irish-Catholic who was a servant in our household, my father found out and arranged my marriage to another man, a friend of his, who was twice my age, because I was pregnant already. That's why Michael (that was his name: Michael) and I were going to be married.

My father arranged for Michael to be sentenced for some trumped-up charge, to seven years' transportation (exile) in another country. I saw him after he came home, but I was prevented from marrying him...because I had not only Michael's son to protect, but two other children’s' futures to protect. That fact filled me with anger, vengefulness, and hatred. Michael said that's what stole my life; it's what killed me at a young age. It's why, when he was reincarnated, he was born with a vocation and he became a priest. The Priest who haunted Waverly Hills, who doesn't talk to paranormal investigators. In fact, he's the ghost in that building known for warning people away from it, and also known for not saying ANYTHING to anyone with a "tape recorder and camera." He hated them, because they give off electromagnetic frequencies that feed demons, and he was trying to protect the living from the very demons Waverly Hills is so proud of, the demons they brag about and, apparently, find amusing and a huge tourist attraction.

Really? Are you REALLY that stupid? Diabolical possession isn't a popular belief amongst American Catholics, but I do believe it, because I've experienced demons, and they hold no goodwill towards humanity. WE ARE FOOD TO THEM. And Satanists? They're COLLABORATORS.

Michael helped me make sense of memories I'd had since as far back as I could remember. Of a childhood I'd never had, in a place I didn't know, a long time ago. Long, long time ago. I'd been born Jewish in Petrograd. I was only half-Jewish, because my father was a highly placed member of the Imperial Family. But my mother being Jewish meant I was considered wholly Jewish, especially since my biological father could never acknowledge me. Because I was a bastard (illegitimate) and Jewish. But my biological father was who's example I followed when it came to religion...I chose to be Russian Orthodox, like my biological father, whose name I knew. My mother told me.

He did me one solid: he made my military career possible. I saw World War I. In color. Live. You think it looks miserable in those jerky black-and-white, no-sound film clips you've seen? Imagine being there. Cold. Freezing. Lots of snow, always wet. Always cold. Being afraid to sleep, because you could either freeze to death and never wake up, or the Germans would shoot you and you'd never wake up. And the mud wasn't mud, because mud is dirt and water, not dirt and blood. And I hated The Germans. Hated them.

I still do. Not in reality. The man I love is German-American. So is one of my very best friends. And I love them. Every single person I've ever met of German descent or from Germany, has been a great, warm, lovable person. But part of me hates The Germans.

So I took my mother and myself out of Russia when World War I turned into the Bolshevik Revolution, which took Russia from being the largest Christian country on Earth to the USSR.

You know, The Bad Guys in what's known as The Cold War. Those people. Those people who threatened everything I grew up knowing: my hometown, Omaha, Nebraska; my family; my school (Our Lady of Lourdes on 32nd and Martha); every single human being I was surrounded by my entire life, because Offutt Air Force Base was known to the rest of the world as Strategic Air Command. Nuclear Command Headquarters. Omaha, Nebraska (actually, Bellevue). It would be the first target the Soviets would glass if nuclear war broke out in defiance of Mutually Assured Destruction. And my parents? My mom not telling me that if the Soviets ever got stupid, we'd be the first ones to be vaporized, was like a day without sunshine. She never let me forget, and to this day, I haven't forgotten. I saw the footage and stills of the aftereffects of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The ones who were standing closest to the detonation became permanent shadows on the sidewalks they were standing on when the bomb blew in Hiroshima.

I didn't want to be a shadow on a sidewalk. I wanted to live. I didn't want to die like I saw in the TV movie The Day After. Or my country to turn into a book I'd read, War Day, by Whitley Streiber and another author whose name I don't remember now.

My dad was a United States Marine, a veteran of the Korean War. His older brothers had been in the Navy and the Marines during World War II. My great-uncles on my mom's side were all in the armed forces as well. Thankfully, they all came back. But they wouldn't talk about it, and knowing what I know now, especially the memories I have from having been a Russian soldier on the front during World War I, I can't say I blame them much. War is bloody and sad and awful.

How did I die in my last life? I took myself and my mother to France. Paris. What a huge mistake that was. Because I had to leave when France did a belly-flop for the Nazis in 1940. And I remember dying. But not because I was a soldier, fighting to get the enemy out of my adopted home. Oh, no. Nope. Because I was Jewish. That's why. And it sucks, because it still makes me mad, and I'm not that person anymore, I'm an Irish Catholic American woman who was born in 1973. It's why I hate "The Germans" and why I call Petrograd by its World War I name: Petrograd. Not the Germanified version, Saint Petersburg. It's why Neo-Nazis make me sick.

It's also why I know so much about the history of the Russian Empire. I looked up every scrap of information I could find about the Tsars and Tsarinas. I didn't realize when I got this obsession back in 1984 that I was sucking down this information like it was chocolate fondue because those people had been my ancestors, my great-grandparents, in my last life.

All I knew was the more information I discovered, the more I wanted to know, until I'd exhausted every single reference that existed in print, in English. That was almost twenty years ago. The only new information that's come out is that all the members of Tsar Nikolai II's family have been conclusively identified by mDNA (mitochrondrial DNA) testing and they've been canonized in the Russian Orthodox Church in Moscow.

So Saint Nikolai II, the neo-martyr, the passion-bearer, is one of the patron saints I pray to a lot. I was very closely related to him in my last life, and in that lifetime, he'd also been my NCA (Pentagon jargon for "National Command Authority," a.k.a. The President of the United States) during World War I.

So: Michael, the Catholic Monsignor Ghost from Waverly Hills, explained demonology as if it were a war zone, we're on the battlefield, and demons are the ground-pounders in an invasion force. That's what makes Satanists labeled "collaborators" in my mind. Because anyone who helps demons get more headway in their unlawful invasion of MY PLANET, MY HOME, is collaborating in the (the demons hope) eventual destruction of every living thing on this planet; anything that has life-energy in it. That includes plants, animals and insects, not just human beings. We just have more energy than the plants and animals and other life-forms on Earth, and we're smart enough to comprehend what we're facing. That makes every human being a target. Marked for de-existence.

It also means that anyone who's ever heard what's called The Gospel has been drafted into a huge army. The Army of God. The foot soldiers in a war that can only end one of two ways: either we win, or they do. I don't know about you, but I'm not planning on being dinner for a thing that's the direct opposite of a human soul. I'm not going to sit still and let my people be wiped out and my home destroyed. Never again. I've had to do this in my last life with the Nazis; I'm not playing with another enemy on my doorstep and anywhere else I may go ever again.

I can see and talk to ghosts because they're just human beings that don't have bodies anymore. That's because human bodies die; human souls don't. That's usually called "direct" or "first-hand experience." That's why I believe the things I do. I've either seen it first-hand, or I've experienced it myself. That includes The Entity Known As God. S/He has manifested to me as a female. Specifically, The Triune Goddess, Virgin, Mother and Crone. I still pray to the saints; I'm a hardcore believer. And I believe in God 100%, all the time, 24/7/365. 366 in a Leap Year. I just prefer to think of Her as female. And to all you fully-converted-from-Christian Pagans out there, NO, I don't worship any other Pagan Gods, such as any god listed as "Ancient Egyptian" or that was featured in Olivia Coolidge's Greek Myths. I can't, because it goes against everything I was taught as a child. And since I'm essentially a mind-reader, having my mom teach me about the Church and then being taught again everything my mom was teaching me in Religion class at school, I can't do it; it's just not in me. I can't do it. It's, well, too wrong for me to contemplate in any serious fashion. If you can do it, and it makes you happy and works for you, that's wonderful. But I just can't.

I really enjoy dead people. Most of the time (like 95%), they're so much nicer than the living. They've taught me a lot about the Other Side, and history and theology, and being psychic, and our loving, all-knowing, all powerful God. They know S/He he's there. They believe in God. And so do I. And, since I was raised to be a nice person who helps other people, I want to help them when they need it, too. After all, they're just like the living, except their bodies died and they didn't, because souls are forever.

We really are the Children of God. No matter what you call God, we really are His/Her kids. And S/He's a loving parent, a good parent, because a good parent does not abandon their kids. And S/He never would ever abandon us. S/He loves us way too much to ever leave us. All S/He wants is for us to do our best to get along with each other.

Paul Dale Roberts, HPI Esoteric Detective
aka The Demon Warrior
Hegelianism Paranormal Intelligence (International)
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