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My first psychic attack
Thursday, 07 April 2016 21:32
Special to the Daily Planet

My parents were moving out of a house in Mars Hill that sat on 19 acres of mostly wooded land. It had formerly been a working organic farm that was featured in several magazines. 

I was certain it was cursed. Or built on a snake den. Probably both. The bottom floor had a pool, so they lived on the second floor.

The movers had taken all but a few things the day before and I was helping Mom box up the last few items and do some last-minute cleaning while we were waiting to show the property. In the meantime, a monstrous storm rolled in. Thunder shook the house and the lightning was huge and jagged and looked spectacular from the solarium windows. I love storms!

The first couple of prospective buyers arrived — and Mom showed them around. When the second couple came, I took them. We started in the pool room downstairs. Behind the wall was a bathroom with a shower and lots of storage shelves — and a small red door to a root cellar. The man unlatched it and opened the door. Nothing was inside so he closed it back and we walked around the rest of the house.

After I finished my tour, Mom and I went back to cleaning and packing. But something was different. Something was wrong. Someone was there — and they wanted us to leave. Now. 

“Mom, we have to leave now,” I said. My mom doesn’t have the same sensitivities that I do, so she didn’t feel the danger that I did. I spent the next hour pleading with her to leave the house. Even though the man  — I sensed — saw that I was doing my best to get her out, he grew more and more angry and menacing.

He took a step toward me. “Mom, we have to go now!” I said. He took another. And then another. With each step, he got bigger. And closer. And bigger. And closer. Until he was right in my face. \

His hatred of us filled me. “Mom! We have to go now! Right now!” I said.  My pleas were growing more and more desperate.  I knew if we didn’t get out of there immediately, something awful was going to happen to us.

I raced down the back steps to the car, thinking she’d follow me. She didn’t. He did. By the time I sat down in the passenger seat, I was sobbing. We were still in danger, Mom was still in the house and this hateful, angry man was inside my head and I didn’t know what to do.  

When she finally got to the car, I was balling. As we drove down the long driveway, the man threw objects at us from both sides of the car. I kept cringing and dodging and raising my hands to defend myself. My mother had never seen me so frightened and upset. It was completely uncharacteristic of me. 

She stopped at a local convenience store, thinking that a cold soft drink would calm me down. I couldn’t get ahold of my emotions. I am not one to cry and I never lose control, but I had never experienced anything like that. It was more than physical or emotional. It actually attacked the core of my being, that little piece that is rooted in each of us that sends out tender shoots and leaves — and eventually flowers again after the initial plant has sustained so much trauma that it withers and dies. The core is that piece of us that never dies. 

A police officer had seen how upset I was when he was standing inside the store — and had rounded the back of the car and came up beside me to see if I was okay. What could I say? A crabby old dead guy got inside my head because I didn’t move fast enough? He asked lots of questions and was very nice, but he didn’t leave my side until Mom got back to the car and he reassured himself that she wasn’t kidnapping me. 

When I got to work the next morning, I told Dad everything that had happened. And he told me that weird things always happened whenever anyone opened the red door to the root cellar — the same red door that my couple had opened. 

I never found out any details about that door. And I don’t know who the angry man was. It’s worth noting, though, that even though my mom doesn’t have the same gifts that my dad and I do, she woke up screaming the night they moved into the house — “Make him stop looking at me! He won’t stop looking at me!” 

This is still a deeply personal and painful experience even after all these years. But it helped prepare me for what was to come…. 


Shelley Wright, an Asheville native, is a paranormal investigator. She works at Wright’s Coin Shop in Asheville and is a weekly participant in the “Speaking of Strange” radio show from 9 p.m. to midnight on most Saturdays on Asheville’s WWNC-AM (570).



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