The old country home I spent my formative years suggested many signs of paranormal activity. If you've been following my articles, you already know of several experiences I encountered.

 

Back then, there were no psychic investigators or paranormal instruments to measure temperature or special cameras to capture lights or orbs manifesting in any given area of a room. Still, there was the evident change in climate from one room to another, which I never questioned. It was accepted as normal. Old homes are drafty, stairs squeak and floorboards creak. Nothing to cause significant alarm.

Yet I could not help but wonder why one unfinished attic space was warm, bright and cheery while the other always bitterly cold, depressing and dismal. They were exactly the same size and both unfinished with insulation placed between boards running the length of the room. Some areas of the rooms were covered with floors able to hold body weight. Each had a window and though I never thought of it, in reflection I realize even on the brightest of summer days, the East room held no sunlight while the West room shined with brilliance. Neither had an entry door making it ever more enticing especially since we children had been forbidden to enter either unfinished attic.

 

What child wouldn't wish to look inside the rooms? What harm could it do us? So, we'd step lightly on each board, careful not to waiver and tread on the insulated areas, investigating every nook and cranny, many times discovering hidden trinkets and treasures from the past. Old books lined the East rooms finished circumference, which for me, as an avid reader, meant I must examine each topic. Books written by Churchill, Eisenhower and Einstein, which were far too uninteresting to catch a young child's fancy, were set aside while I opted for the more appropriate Grimm and Mother Goose tales.

 

If it not been for the love of the written word or childhood curiosity, I fear I would never have ventured into the East room. The air bitterly cold, the sense of gloom prevalent, the glimpse of ghostly apparitions beckoning seemed a fair exchange for uncovering such wonderful tales within each book. Little did I know that I would soon decide never again to step one foot inside this room. The fair exchange would soon tilt to one side, forcing me to heed my parent's words.

 

It was a hot, humid summer day, the air as thick as maple syrup. Having finished reading the last volume of the Nancy Drew Mystery series the week before, I decided rather than make the long trek to our local library, I'd settle in the East room to lose myself in the Brothers Grimm. What an appropriate author to have selected this day, for grim couldn't come close in describing my experience.

 

Having selected the story I wished to read, I settled my back against the wall, legs bent and feet firmly on the floorboard ready to get lost in the fantasy. I heard my name whispered in my ear, "Monica". Again, "Monica". More an irritant invading my privacy, I chose to ignore it. An intense bit of laughter filled the room, this time causing me uneasiness. I shrugged it off and continued my reading, now lost in picturing the cruel treatment of Cinderella by her stepsisters when a whoosh of wind flipped open the books at my feet, pages rapidly turning with the force. I jumped, hitting my head against the overhead rafter, a chill running down my spine. The books flew into the air smacking against my body before falling to the ground. I was stunned and glanced toward the unopened window trying to find logic in the illogical. Laughter once again filled the room and yet another whisper into my ear "Monica". Terrified, I raced out of the room, down the stairs and into the sanctity of my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. It was at this exact momen, I vowed to never, ever, ever enter that dark place. It was evident I was an unwanted visitor.

 

I never spoke of this experience until now; not to my parents, brothers or friends. What would have been the point? No one would have believed it anyway.

 

Guess my lesson of karma is to rely on your instincts. If you inherently feel there is something not right, most assuredly you are correct in your assumption. One room so warm and inviting, the other filled with doom and despair. Make the wise decision, for Karma will answer to your choice.

 

About the Author:

 

Monica M Brinkman believes the world needs less greed and more humanitarianism.

Her novel, The Turn of the Karmic Wheel, reflects those beliefs. Look for the sequel, The Wheels Final Turn to be released early 2013. Her latest effort is a contributing author with her story, My Life As A Singing Telegram, as we take a walk down memory lane in 25 Years In the Rearview Mirror: 52 Authors Look Back.

Monica is a member of the Missouri Writers Guild, Vice-President of the Phelps County Historical Society, hosts the Thursday night It Matters Radio Show and is a columnist for A Touch of Karma on Authorsinfo.com
She resides in the Midwest with her husband Richard, two dogs and five cats.

 

To view or purchase 'The Turn of the Karmic Wheel'

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Visit her websites:

A Touch of Karma
Meaningful Writings
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