34

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BY:

DEBRA FULTON

Copyright © 2012 Debra Fulton

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN: 978-1-4525-5813-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-5814-1 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-5815-8 (hc)

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The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2012915837

Balboa Press rev. date:08/31/2012

Contents

Preface

Prologue

1

Watching

2

Shy

3

Projection

4

5

First Dream

6

Nature lessons

7

Regression

8

9

Continuation

10

Empowerment

11

First Glimpse

12

Contact

13

Dream

14

15

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16

Basement man

17

The Little Blond Girl

18

Meditation CD

19

Nasty

20

21

22

Floater

23

24

25

Burn

26

Meditation

27

28

Displacement

29

Karen

30

Orbs

31

Walking

32

33

34

Visitor

35

TV

36

37

38

39

40

Home Sweet Home

41

The End

For Violet and Allen: two of the most wonderful guardians a person could ever ask for,

And to my daughters who give me continual strength and inspiration. I love you all…….

Preface

This work began as an attempt to record the unusual occurrences in my home in order to make sense of them. As events unfolded, my own spiritual journey progressed, along with the development of my youngest daughter’s psychic abilities.

The book you are reading is a culmination of experiences written over a three year period. Many things unfolded, as you will see. The names of the people involved have been changed to protect their privacy, even though many of these people have read and thoroughly endorse the telling of this story.

Above all things, in the end I felt this story needed to be told in order for the reader to question the unseen things around us, and most importantly to convey the message of complete love and understanding that flows to us, unknowingly, from the other side of this life.

Many thanks are extended to all the people I have loved in this life, and continue to honor as the most precious gifts anyone could have, if only for a short while. My hope is that you will allow yourself to believe that you are never alone…………..D.F.

Prologue

The moon is full, its rotund, orange body suspended just above the horizon. Slowly it rises against its own weight, resisting the thick ninety degree air, as if being pulled by a string, struggling through the phases it has to complete. Similarly, the baby inside of me resists its birth, hesitant to open its eyes to the bright world beyond, wanting only to stay in the warm, moist environment in which it has developed for the last nine months.

I writhe in pain, screaming one minute, nauseous the next, no longer feeling the effect of the minor dose of narcotic given to me over three hours ago. The doctor pulls with strained bicep, forcing the baby’s head to advance, then it snaps back inside me violently, showing us her strength. Yes, she will be strong, if not in body, then in spirit. She has proven that time after time. The doctor strains one last time, and my oldest daughter is born, her red, squinting face covered with slime. Her lips quiver, and she lets out her first piercing cry. It is my grandmother’s birthday, and the moon has risen above the earth to show its magical early autumn light.

Without becoming a mother, I may never have been able to tell this story. As any mother knows, the truth our children confront us with should never be doubted. It is in our genes, the bond between us extends farther and stronger than any bond learned of from scientific advancement. It is the root of who we are. Without this bond, we are exceedingly alone, and that is no way to live our lives.

We have all had experiences that make us feel removed from real life; if only for a split second. You saw that thing out of the corner of your eye. You felt that draft on the back of your neck when there was no air flow to explain it. Things turned on or off by themselves, etc. Keeping that in mind, let me just say that this is not a ghost story. There are plenty of those around. This is not a story at all. This is simply a reality. The daughter whose birth I mention above is an engineering student, and she tells me that nothing on earth can be proven, only disproved. So far, no one has been able to disprove God, faith, love, or brief, inexplicable encounters with something foreign to us. I’m not here to tell you the meaning of life or what the other side is like. I’m just here to tell you what happened, and is happening, to me.

1

Being the youngest, the oops baby born to parents in early middle age in the mid 60‘s was an interesting childhood, to say the least. Back then, it was considered weird to give birth at that late an age. Most of my memories are of things I did alone. I did (and still do) have a best friend that I met in third grade. Before this, though, most experiences were products of imagination, invention, and pure boredom. Thinking I could jump off the couch and just for a second - a split second- float effortlessly in mid-air was something not unusual for me. I really did believe I was flying, in ever so short a segment of time. But, I could feel it, really feel it, before I slammed down onto the orange shag carpeting in our ranch style home.

Both my siblings were older, my brother by 13 years, and my sister by 8. They tried to incorporate me into their lives but it was rarely convenient. He was in college when I was five, and she had a constant stream of social events and musical groups that she was involved in throughout junior high and high school.

Don’t feel sorry for me. I had a great childhood. I couldn’t imagine doing anything more exciting than I could create in my own little mind. My parents lived through World War II. My dad, Allen, served in Northern Africa and Italy for a full three years before they married. His father was from Germany, and this side of the family consisted of the typical stout, opinionated eaters that you can imagine from the Midwest with that German heritage and depression experiences. No drinkers on board, though. Mom’s family was a mix of English, German, and some Irish people whose English forefathers hailed from mother England in the big wave of the mid-1630’s and 40’s. They made it as far west as Illinois and decided not to cross the Mississippi. This was a typical Midwest family in the late twentieth century, and I was a typical product of it.

It was a carefree, happy time. Time was spent walking around the hot suburban sidewalks barefoot in the summer. Getting together with a neighbor girl and jumping through the sprinkler. I remember running around the back yard at dusk with the sound of locusts and crickets, hearing them undulate through the air, and catching lightening bugs with our hands to stick into mason jars with little holes punched in the top. Those poor, unfortunate bugs gave us a show for a couple of hours and then succumbed to an early death from suffocation before we remembered to let them out. We walked about a mile and a half to and from the neighborhood school every day. Our parents never worried about child abductors, drug dealers, or even imagined us not actually attending. School was where the social experiment was; where we learned how we fit in (if we did), with what group, and how to interact with our peers. We all learned and I can safely say, we all had fun with the occasional bad day.

Watching

I am four. I am sitting on the wooden floor in my bedroom in front of the closet door playing with some toys from my laundry basket toy box. As I inspect the green plastic dairy truck with a slot in the top for coins, I feel her looking at me. She is to my right, somewhere near the foot of my bed, just looking at me. I can’t see her but I know who she is - my grandmother. She was my mom’s mom who died back in 1948 from ovarian cancer. Even at this age, I wonder if this is imagination, then I decide it’s not. This would be only the beginning of a connection to a person I had never met, but felt I had thoroughly known somehow. An overwhelming comfort comes through me and I know that she is watching over me. I love her.

2

It was 1973 and I was assigned to third grade in a class taught by Mrs. Struber. She was not the usual kind of teacher with gray hair done up once a week at the neighborhood beauty parlor. She was young. She had short brown hair in a modern straight style and wasn’t scary like those elderly ladies with fatty arms and puffy ankles who wore long skirts and button-up blouses. She was different for us, all right. In this class I would succeed as I did for my entire school career, with straight A’s and almost perfect attendance. There was no other option because my parents and my siblings stressed the importance of education. Back then there were no team sports until well into junior high. I took piano lessons, and man, I hated it.

I just wasn’t musically talented like the rest of my family. Mom was a soprano in the church choir. Dad had music in his family. His brothers were in a musical group after the war, and my brother had a beautiful voice which stayed inside the house on special occasions when he walked around in a good mood and sang for fun. We always had that upright piano in the living room. My sister took lessons for years, excelled at music, continued to study right through college, and eventually became a music teacher. There was no choice; off to piano lessons I go. I was also expected to practice after school for a half hour each day. Rarely did I do this, almost never, in fact. I just did not fit into this musical environment. Time was better spent outdoors running, riding my bike, climbing trees, and generally being the small Daniel Boone explorer I was at heart. To this day my voice could deter the most vicious burglar. All I would have to do is start singing and he would run screaming with his fingers in his ears. But I digress. The third grade was important for one thing and one thing only. Beth. She quickly became my best friend. You know these people instantly when you meet them. It was a familiar feeling, a comfortable presence. She has been with me all these years and is the only person who knows all about me. I mean the only one. It’s good to have one of these around and I feel really