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Kimberley A Sher

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Member Since: Feb, 2011

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Nee, A Hallow's Eve Tale
By Kimberley A Sher
Saturday, October 29, 2011

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Discover the truth about the ghost and the famous Tulip staircase

 

 
 
 
 
 

Author’s Note:

 In a perfect world, the narration of this tale is in a voice

 I imagine as the famous actress,

Judi Dench.


       
 
 
 
 

                   

 
                            
                                       Nee

                            A Hallow’s Eve Tale

What began as a suspicion soon became an obsession, a deep seeded desire to understand the unknown, the apparent coincidental incident, and the overwhelming pre-occupation to comprehend information the eyes did see, but the mind could not fathom.

Every now and then, this wonderful life produces an anomaly, an exception to the rule, a new and en-heightened awareness. In order to truly appreciate the unusualness of this particular tale, one must understand there is no evidence to prove the contrary, perhaps the most frightening and uncomfortable aspect of our tale. One may choose not to believe. One may choose to suppose the entire concept a farce. One may choose to realise, of all the controversies ever known to man, one indisputable fact stands true above all religious doctrine, all political viewpoints, and every philosophy, theosophy, theology:

Man lives and man dies.

What occurs in between these two instances is any man’s guess, really.

Whether we choose to agree or disagree on the very distinct matter of what in fact actually is the beginning or the ending of our lives, for our purposes, I will begin this tale at a beginning or sorts, which may prove to result in a new desirous obsession of your own, dear reader, Nee.

 
Nee

Adjective:  born, previously, formerly

 
 
 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
History
 


There is a very famous photograph of a ghost running up a

 Tulip banister staircase.
 The photograph was taken in 1966.

It is indisputably unexplainable.

There are still to this very day, live accounts of footsteps heard, a seemingly transparent woman walking through walls, and yet another transparent young lady at the foot of the stairs mopping up what appears to be blood.

Rumour has it that a young chamber maid met an untimely violent death having been thrown from the top of the famous Tulip Staircase.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Let Us Begin…


 
 

I can reveal to you the capture of this apparition for all the world to see was a stroke of luck for the photographer, a mistake in nature of colossal proportion and an unlikely moment which began a sequence of events bringing us to this very story.

There are many instances and beginnings which correspond to the very date the ghost photograph was captured, and the birth of a little girl is one such instance, a very, shall we say, different sort of child.

Yes indeed, a series of events would ensue.

When the child was three years old, one evening she and her family prepared to attend a drive- in theatre. They lived in a second floor apartment. As the family prepared to exit, the child, who wore a long nightgown, held her pillow in front of her as she took her first step down the stairs.

For those of you unfamiliar with the wearing of nightgowns, the next revelation may well be a surprise to you. Nevertheless, down the flight of stairs the three year old went, producing a crying child, a nose bleed and three very bad bumps on the head. Of course, the family went to the drive- in and life continued. Although a little

 

leery of stairs in general, the child had survived the first encounter, the first clue, and it was this incident that we mark as a beginning, and an ending.

But the child was exceptionally different from other children. Her dreams were especially vivid, and on occasion, she reported to her mother or anyone who would listen, that she had seen certain things. However, a little girl from the small town she was from couldn’t have ever known of Indian carpets, the lady in white who runs up and down the flower stairs, (which we may refer to properly as Tulip stairs), the poor family whose house burned to the ground, the whispers, the art work, and the “what ifs” that often happened. The oddities about this child often spooked those around her including her own mother.

Even the child herself began to wonder about her “other” family, the other places she lived and other people she may have known, “before” she was this version of herself.  That very concept was life altering. She was becoming aware. Her subconscious was becoming awakened and slowly life would change for her in very big ways.

Time did pass and as many lives seem to follow down a frightening path, so did the now young woman’s.

Her life however was complicated and she began to dream of other lives, other loves and when sleep found her, she felt more alive than when she was not asleep.

Eventually, there came the awful day for the now mother of two, when her husband, a foul minded individual decided to help her with the arduous task of walking down a flight of stairs by saving her time, providing her with the gentle push she needed to break her neck in the fall. With the experience seemingly ending there, she lay quite dead at the bottom on the landing. A definite ending some might say.

Ah, but beginnings and endings are confusing intermingled things. In short, not realising what had happened, the young mother, so dedicated to survival and mothering her children, rose slowly until she was standing. She looked to her husband who immediately rushed down the stairs to see if she was actually alright and asked her how it happened that she had fallen. Dazed and confused, they decided the incident had been the weirdest of things and life continued.

 Of course, the marriage did not. The divorced young mother of two carried on with the children. Several sad and exhausting years would pass. While driving one day, the woman’s mind began to wander until she remembered falling down the stairs many years ago as a child. She looked off into the distance and realized the geography had changed somehow. There were two very large houses that she had never noticed before and though the road seemed not to have altered, the land around it seemed to have grown in and around fences in a most unfamiliar way.  Since this was a road she travelled every day, the thoughts and observations struck her very oddly. She became fearful, anxious and she whispered out loud,

“I wonder if I did die when I fell down the stairs and all of this, all of everything is just me fabricating a life that stopped and I didn’t?”

Shivers ran over her and she drove a little slower while the sky seemed impossible colors and the clouds looked like a child painted them on.

“If I died and I carried on, then the old me, could be in a coma somewhere while I am here. How do I get back? Do I even want to go back? I mean the kids are safe with me here. What about my kids? I wonder if versions of them are still in harm, there? But is here real? Or is there real? I’m being silly.”

She picked up her now teenage son from his part time job and tried very hard not think of it again.     

But dreams they say are communications with the soul, and her dreams were especially relentless. Suddenly she could remember different versions of her many selves. She remembered being a version who suffered amnesia. She remembered being another version who had married a cowboy. She remembered being a peasant woman, a mother of four, and she could see the children’s faces as she lay dying, leaving them to their own devices. Death was after all not a planned thing.

Every morning she awoke feeling just a little like she had not left her dream state entirely behind and eventually began to wonder other thoughts.

“What if there are many versions of me kick’n around? What then? Who am I really? What if I died when my x-husband pushed me down the stairs? Am I dead? Where do I belong? Do we get to choose? I must be crazy! If it were that easy, we’d all be doing it!”

But what our single mother of two didn’t realise was she was actually not the only one having these thoughts, these concerns, these longings for answers to questions. He was there too. He was there in every version of herself in every moment she had ever lived and he hated her with a passion reserved for those who make dictionary definitions and create new words describing new levels of hatred, passion, and the exaggerated not known until now. She began to accept the concept of death in a new light. She up to this point did not figure out how stair cases fit into it, but all would be revealed and soon.

She could feel he was near. In this life, he was her x-husband. In this life, she had dodged a bullet twice while being married. In this life, instead of passing away, she did what she did the time he smothered her with a pillow and while in one dimension, her dead body lie in the bed, successfully murdered, she, her “self” ran for her life up the staircase where she had the misfortune of not even knowing she was being photographed.

It has been said that energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed. The body is merely a casing, a shell and this woman had escaped her shell many times over as others have done before her. And so the entire concept of ghostly encounters now explained may strike you as absurd. But alas, her time had come again. He had finally found her and this time he would finish her for good. Being a sociopath, he had a developed awareness and he, in the deep dark recesses of his criminal mind had resolved she was a witch of sorts. 

One night, before nine pm. on her way to pick up her son from his part time job, she realised she had forgotten her driver’s licence and returned home. In a hurry, she rushed into the house and immediately was struck with the feeling something was wrong. The wallet was not by the door, two of the lights had been turned off and though odd, not worth spending time investigating, making her son wait. She rushed into her bedroom and noticed the wallet on the bed. She thought it was strange and couldn’t remember leaving it there. She reached for it and that is when she knew something was more than wrong. Finally after all day of rationalizing, blatantly disregarding and flat out ignoring, she listened closely to the little voice within and just knew... He was there! She could sense that old feeling of dread and fear gripped her. She was certain he stood behind her.  He had been hiding in the closet for hours, waiting. He had just walked right in, earlier in the day, while she was home and he waited. She stood paralyzed and suddenly could feel his breath at the back of her neck.

“I told you. Steal my children? Ruin my life? It’s over.” And he reached over her neck and grabbed her chin, snapping her neck, dragging her out of the bedroom and throwing her down the stairs. And just like when he had pushed her down the flight of stairs while they were married, he stood convinced she had died, but on this occasion, something was different.

 A cool breeze brushed by him. In her mind, she had once again ran for her life and it was after all, her mind, but he sensed her spirit and while he stared down at the dead mother of his two children, the psychopath became riddled with a paranoid fear of the unexplained.

Suddenly, he felt the impact that would end his life sending him down the flight of stairs. His last view on this earth was at first as he lie broken at the foot of the stairs, the dead body of the woman he had finally killed who lay open eyed, lifelessly at his side, and secondly, as movement caught his eye, which was all that he could move, he looked to the top of the stairs and in his amazement and practical disbelief, stood the victorious transparent image of the woman he believed he had finally killed.  So terrified, he died instantly, befittingly and to everyone’s relief.   

In order to explain how this is possible, one must backtrack to the beginning of our tale and realise life has lessons for us all. Once such lesson learned was captured on film as our heroin whom was mentioned first and rightfully so, escaped her shell and ran up and down a staircase and didn’t stop running until she righted a wrong that had been done to her in that life. Decades later, she stopped running as fate, energy and precise circumstance brought her to the very person who had taken her life in their own lifetime. Yes indeed, he was the very man if we may presume to call him a man and not a monster who murdered his wife and though he told people he had awaken to find she had passed in her sleep, was merely truthfully satisfying a deep desire to witness life flow from the living, believing he himself had the power to have her life force absorbed into himself. He hadn’t even fathomed the energy escaping, and continuing on in a relentless loop of experience relived, and the soul’s adaptation, carrying on, continuing life. Her “ghostly” image ran and ran in a vicious cycle for centuries until came the time when time and fate once again, like magnets brought the two energies together again in a fierce collision where time itself did bend.  The impact of the collision however threw him physically down a flight of stairs, killing him, and allowing her to move on, transform as her energy released itself from a secondary shell, the subconscious. There will be no more photographs of the lady running up or down the famous Tulip staircase.

 If only ghost hunters were astute, which they are not, they would invent some sort of device to capture those who walk about during the day. Why wait unit the night to seek revenge, right a wrong, move an item with invisible hands?

 Haven’t you, dear reader, felt the hair stand on the back of your neck when fear gripped you inexplicably? Do you not suppose someone may be right at your side, waiting for just the moment to right a wrong? How many times have we heard stories where people state, they don’t know how they made it out alive, or they don’t understand how they didn’t die? Perhaps they did die and like our heroine, simply not knowing, they carried on in an alternate, more agreeable subconscious fabrication they never questioned was not reality?

In modern society, we hear of freak accidents where villainous people meet a very odd and shall we say karmic fate. Truth is, there is an equal and opposite reaction to every action.

The appropriate reaction to being murdered took decades to come right, many staircases, and even though she had no idea she was reliving and re-dying for decades running up and down the flight of stairs, at the moment he looked at transparent “ her”, and transparent she at him, the great exchange took place. Knowledge was passed and she then knew what happened to her, remembering the gruesome, cold murder, and sensing for just how long she had been living the loop of denial experience. A deep sadness found her. For it was then she realised her life had been a lie and her children were motherless in several other lifetimes, her own parents lost their first child and never did attend a drive-in movie after that and all while she had carried on with them, but only in her mind.  Paramount in experience is in every life he took her. In every life he hated. In the very least we must realise he may find her once again, reawaken an old detest, after all, hatred is evil consistency if anything. But for now her cycle could begin afresh, a new baby, a new soul.

This entire preface merely is one soul’s tale. One consciousness, and all because a devoted mother couldn’t fathom a truth of being murdered and leaving her children behind, running up a staircase, and being photographed as a ghost. A photograph of a subconscious image and that is all, not a ghost! The mere instant capture of fantastic documentation of an electrical communication between subconscious, conscious and the once familiar physical, not a ghost!

 And no, the houses were not there, as the young mother drove to pick up her son from work. There is no such person, or persons. This, all of this, was merely a version of a consciousness never satisfied, a fabrication of consciousness intermingled with other mass fabrications. As the “collision time” drew nearer, the fabrications weakened and on occasion cracks of other fabrications, even slices of reality uncomfortably trickled in. When instances such as these occur, one gets a creepy sensation for a reason they are unable to explain.  

The people she knew, the places she had been, none of it ever happened, or did it? Some think they see a vehicle around nine pm and are very confused as it often disappears from view and I hear them say out loud, “What the hell? I’m sure there was a car there a moment ago. Maybe there’s something wrong with me.” And just what might that be, exactly? What do you suppose could be wrong? Dead, perhaps? Haven’t you yourself awaken in a panic, practically shouting your dream had seemed so “real”? How real was it? Were you day dreaming, or did you just leave for a bit?

 After all, there is however another photograph, not so famous, in a suitcase, in a shed, belonging to a former landlady long since passed. If one looks very carefully, a white disturbance is seen from the top of the staircase to the bottom. It is the staircase of an apartment building in a tiny town where a small child lost her life falling down a flight of stairs while wearing a nightgown.

 And now, as I do not in fact actually live and breathe and yet I am, I can tell you as I visit this would be aspiring author, borrow her fingers, borrow her mind, and tell you with certainty, there is more to know and I do know it!

As I share this tale on this Hallow’s  Eve, there will be more to come, more to fear, more unexplained, and since you may not have deduced as of yet I and “my-selves,” exist in between  a beginning and an end by your definition, I say again, there is more to know and I know it.

And as you live and breathe, though you may not know which one of you, you truly are, dangling fate between the neither here nor there, the subconscious battling the conscious, the dream state struggling to take over a person’s idea of a waking state, I am with. I am within.  

When you next visit a graveyard to pay your respects, whisper a prayer for one who is in your mind passed, perhaps “feel” something curious, think you see a shadow out of the corner of your eye, think you may have felt a presence, denied my voice within, it all may be true in a manner of speaking. Perhaps time is visiting you! Perhaps you are experiencing an awaking and realizing re-incarnation doesn’t happen. The next time someone says you remind them of someone they once knew long ago,  perhaps your response should be, “Stranger things have happened.”

Perhaps the next time you find yourself somewhere so familiar you find the need to explain it with Déjà vu, you will remember the other possibility I have presented, and ask your ‘self’, if perhaps your fabrications are weakening.

 

Feeling a little, dead, perhaps? You may not know where your future lies, but I know it!

I do visit dream states from time to time, send messages, inspire, impersonate, confuse, elaborate and entertain my “selves”.

 But on this Hallow’s Eve, I bring warning...

Should you feel fear,

You may think you see,

And if you are scared,

Be prepared,
I see you
For my name is
 Nee.

Afraid of shadows in the night?

Heard a strange sound?

Caught a fright?

Do not fear only night this way,

Fear will now find you

In the light of day.
Oh, I’ll be by,
 In the corner of your eye,
In your mind,
You will find,

Quiet moments to recall...

Oh yes, I know it all.

We will meet when the time is right,

Rest assured, no need to fight,

For you already suspect too well,

Yours will be the next tale I tell!

 

It’s quite alright to be afraid,

Especially of me,

Dead? I have heard whispers….

You may already be…
Forget me not!
 For my name is... Nee!

Small Potatoes Publishing©

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Is A Forest Green Original Product ©
 
 
 


 
 

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