My House

I checked my e-mail, and there I found an interesting question from a reader:

“…I’ve been reading your blog, and I can’t help but wonder what your place looks like. I keep imagining you writing in a dark attic in a cabin in the woods. -Dawn”

To answer your question, Dawn,

I live in a four bedroom house that my parents gave me in a suburban area. The upstairs has a few odds and ends; a kitchen table, and a few chairs here and there. I don’t use the upstairs much, except to cook (which I rarely do). Once a woman spirit sat with me, which was the whole reason I cooked. She thought I was handsome and wanted me to humor her with a dinner date. It was quite hilarious thinking back on the ghostly old woman, and I had nothing better to do. I think she used to do stand-up comedy at a local theatre here in Ashland.

I actually live in my basement.  It’s usually dimly lit—when the light aren’t completely out—with the lowest watt light bulbs I can find. I don’t like the light when I’m trying to relax. I have everything I need down there, a fridge, television, a couch (where I’m usually lounging with my laptop), a bedroom with a king bed, a microwave, and a hotplate. Amongst billions of things it would take forever to mention, I have four very large bookshelves packed with books of all genres.

Not really what you were expecting? Perhaps you were close with the dark part; bright lit rooms tend to annoy me.

Rain, Rain Please Don't Go Away

It rained the whole time I was at work which made it a very relaxing day. There's something about being in a desolate library while it's dark and rainy outside, and you're inside comfortable and dry watching the rain pour down. There's a unique feeling of peace that overcomes you. (Until your boss pulls you back into reality).

I thought a lot about Emmy today. My last conversation with her was very pleasant. We planned another date for this weekend. This time we noted to make it longer.

I asked her about her ghost but she didn't want to discuss it. I figure I'll leave it alone for now. I'll get to meet it soon enough I'm sure.

I heard from my mom last night. She let me know about the family reunion Sunday. I don't know if I'll go. My living relatives are bad enough, but the dead ones are worse, especially now that they're dead.

My mom is the only one that ever knew about my 'gift.' She always believed me, but when I was a kid we stopped talking about it because she was afraid that my father would have me committed. Even though I'm grown now, we still don't speak of it, and my father is still an asshole.

I wonder why mom has never doubted it wasn't 'just my imagination.'


(photo by mconnors)

Haunted Emmy and Coffee

Yesterday at work, a girl came in to the library where I work, and asked if I could recommend a book on ghosts and spirits. Oh, if I could have leant to her my brain. You don't need a book, honey. Just spend a few hours in my shoes.

I pointed her in the right direction. She came back with Ghosts: True Encounters with the World Beyond by Hans Holzer, and I began to check the book out for her. That's when I did something completely impulsive. I asked her out for coffee. Normally, I wouldn't have done such a thing as I do not mix with regular people. But there was something about her that drew me in and shut off my logic.

She blushed from behind her glasses. "Sure," she said to my surprise. We exchanged names (hers was Emmy) and phone numbers, and decided to meet up the next morning--this morning.

Oddly enough, I wasn't nervous. I don't know if it was because she checked out a book about ghosts, or if fate had brought this girl to me. Nevertheless, I felt good about it as I sat at a table at the Little Coffee House.

She came in. She paced looking timid of the crowd, barely glancing around to find me. She caught my eyes, came over, and sat across from me. She said, “A little crowded this morning, huh?”

I agreed.

We conversed shyly—she was the shyer one. In our conversation I asked her why she got a book about ghosts. She said, “I’d rather not say. You’d laugh.”

“Try me,” I responded.

She looked around like she didn’t want anyone to listen in, and said, “Okay, I know this sounds stupid. I think I have a ghost in my house, and I need to figure out how to get rid of it.”

I smiled. It was nothing new to me. Dead people are always bugging the shit out of me.

She thought I was laughing at her, and she told me that she knew I would laugh. I assured her that I believed her, and that she just might have a spirit haunting her house. I didn’t tell her about my ability yet, but I wanted to. I wanted her to invite me over so I could try to convince the spirit to leave, and maybe have some more coffee with more privacy. But I wasn’t ready to share that part about me yet. I didn’t want to run her off.

We finished our coffee. She had to get to work. She was barely able to say, “You want to do something again sometime?”

Of course I agreed. I leaned over and kissed her on her cheek. It startled her—hell, it startled me. But she smiled and said, “Until next time, then.”

She gets off of work at seven. I think I’ll give her a call then, and talk about that ghost of hers.

(photo by hotblack)

The Clinic

I'm feeling extremely sick today. I made a trip to the clinic earlier, and I sat beside a fellow in the waiting room. He struck up a conversation with me. We talked about how his wife had the same cancer he had. He was waiting on her in the waiting room because he never liked to hear what the doctor had to say. "It was too depressing to see his wife cry," he said.

They called me back, and apparently I have an infection somewhere in my body that was causing a high fever. The doctor asked me if I had been hallucinating, I assured him that I hadn't been. I just felt extremely weak and cold. To which he responded, "Are you sure? The receptionist told us you were talking to yourself in the waiting room."

I was completely embarrassed. I was so sick that I didn't realized the man in the waiting room was dead. Thinking back, the man was talking strangely as if his wife would be joining him soon. I simply didn't catch it.

I hate how the dead automatically know they can talk to me, but they don't warn me that they're dead and that I might look like a lunatic talking to the air. I suppose they do look a lot different than the living, but only if you're paying attention. So, I guess, it's my fault. I just need to be more attentive in public from now on.

Let Her Go

I woke up at two o’ clock this morning to a spirit crying and droning on, “She’s moved on, she slept with him!”

It pissed me off at first. Usually the dead never disturb me while I’m asleep. But this time, after waking up a little more, I kind of felt sorry for the poor fellow. I can’t imagine what it would be like to die and watch your wife move on.

I sat up for about an hour talking to this guy. To make a long story short, I told him to let her go and go find himself a nice ghost girlfriend. (Yes this does happen, I’m not kidding). I’m not sure if it did any good, but he left. He seemed to have a new attitude about life--or death, rather.

I never asked how long he’d been hanging around watching her, but perhaps it had been long enough. Sometimes the dead need to let the living go as the living do so with the dead.  Oh, but this isn’t always the case.

(photo by XTearsxOfXTomorrow)

A Short Introduction

I’ll begin by saying that my name is Weston Maddox, and I am a medium. Actually, I hate the word ‘medium’ because it sounds so cliché. So let’s just say I have a gift that enables me to see, interact, and converse with the dead.  

I have no idea where this ‘gift’ came from. I don’t practice Wicca, nor do I have any other particular religious belief. I was born this way. I grew up like this. It’s a normal thing to me. The majority of people I have anything to do with are dead--save for store clerks, and bank tellers, people like that.

That’s a simple summary of my life.

I don’t care if anyone believes me or not. I started this journal because I have no one to talk to about any of this. I figured it would relieve some anxiety to get things off my chest.

(photo by gladtobeout)