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home > articles > Part 3: Now Serving Number One: By the Ghost Hunter
The voices got louder and the number of spirits occupying my head grew at an alarming rate. I was going insane, unable to block out any one voice or focus on any one plight. They had no mercy for me, all standing in the same spot and screaming for help. Screaming was the common trait for the angrier and scared ones. They were the hardest to stop as time was something affordable to the damned that have wandered our world for over a century searching for the doorway to heaven, these words spoken by them just looking for sympathy from the mortal boy who could "talk" to the ghosts. I was unable to focus on anything in my life. My parents would regularly ask me, "What the hell is wrong with you boy?" I'm sure I would have been committed if it was at all affordable. In the end, I was the crazy boy who lived down the block with his poor degenerate parents. The rumors killed me inside. People would cross the street if they saw me coming. I was fully aware of this because the spirits noticed them. The spirits paid attention to any emotional act done in the physical world, especially if it was sad or angry. Somebody crossed the street to stay away from me, I would hear a clear voice saying "They're scared of you!" The same would happen at school. I was shunned from all of my friends, including Buddy who had started hanging with a different group. He would be the first to always lead a chant of, "Crazy boy, crazy boy!" Out of all of them, I missed Buddy the most. He always was at my side to fight the serge of bullies that tried to take over our school. Once we were known as the avengers, superheroes among our fellow children. But Buddy turned and so had they all. I was alone with only the voices in my head to keep me company. I have to admit that this does sound quite crazy; I would have turned on me too save for only one piece of proof, I could read minds. Well, truth be told, the spirits could, but from peoples point-of-view, ones that couldn't hear the noise, it was me invading their souls. When my teacher got mad I could hear, "The teacher is angry. Not getting enough love at home". Love usually meant sex (I'm not that young or out of touch). A bully would push some girl down and I'd hear, "The bully-boy is not loved by mommy! Thinks girl looks like mommy! Bully-boy will kill, bully-boy will kill!" Sometimes I'd lose control of my tact and repeat something the spirit had told me. A teacher was calling attendance one fine and sunny day. When he called out Billy Patterson, a boy in my class known for coming to school with bruises on random parts of his body, no "present" was to be heard. Billy was not in class today, and the spirits were kind enough to tell me why. "Billy's in the hospital. Billy's broken in the leg. Daddy wants Billy dead, boy ruined his life, boy is the reason for his pain!" I guess I was a bit spent from not sleeping in over a week that I blurted out exactly what the spirit had said for the whole class to hear. The teacher was shocked and didn't hesitate to send me away, my walk guided by chants of, "Crazy boy, crazy boy!" Buddy stuck out his leg to trip me as I walked out. I'm sure I would have tripped if the spirits didn't say, "Buddy wants you to fall. Angry that friend has changed." I didn't even look at Buddy or his leg, stepping over it. About two hours later the teacher came to me while I was serving my time in the Special Education room. "How did you know?" The teacher stared at me with a look of complete fear. I only stared back with what must have been the most confused look. "I just got off the phone with Billy's mother …" The spirits started roaring in my head, "Billy's leg is hurt. Billy will never walk the same again!" I grabbed my head and screamed. The teacher turned and ran out of the room.
The first one to come was a boy by the name of Timothy. He was upset that his parents had left him in such a dark place when they knew he was very afraid of the dark. Timothy spoke with a very clear British accent and politely said he was from the Sussex area. He was scared of the man who would come into his room every night. He could see something shiny in the man's hand. "It was pointy like the utensils mother would use in the kitchen". Every night the man would visit, and every night Timothy is packed away in soft and warm fabric, taken for a ride, and then put into some cold water. Timothy would visit
me everyday to recount the events that took place the night before,
and each story would an exact copy of the previous, Timothy not even
aware of the repeat. It only took one time to know that he was murdered
by a man who kidnapped him and through him into the river. "Would you send word to my mommy? Would you tell her that I'm alive and am in the dark?" There it was, the first favor ever put to me by a spirit. It horrified me. I told Timothy no, and emphatic no. I would be unable to send word to a woman halfway across the world, not to mention I don't even know her name. "Margaret, my mommy's name is Margaret. Margaret Anne Murray. I'm Timothy William Murray. We live in a most beautiful house in Hurstpierpoint." The panic was evident in Timothy's voice. "Please get word to her, I know she's worried to death about me. I'm her little angel; she always called me that. I'm her angel, she'll be missing her angel." I could hear sobbing from the scared English lad. He would persist for another week before I finally gave into the constant and unending crying, yelling and whining. I couldn't take it anymore; he was the loudest, but definitely not the only spirit. Also, his crying seemed to attracted the attention of other spirits and I was starting to hear "noise". A different spirit was posing questions to me every hour. "You have a body, I forget what it's like to have a body!" "Tell me why I'm dead." "What year is it boy? How long has it been since war?" Countless questions, but I would provide no answers and most of them grew tired of my silence. Not Timmy (as I started to call him just for fun), he would continue his battle until I was dead. I finally gave up and agreed to call his mother. "Call? Do you mean yell out your window, like when you call to the postman?" No, I told him. Call her on the telephone. It was obvious at this point he didn't know of the telephone invention. I had to spend the next thirty minutes explaining the invention from Alexander Graham Bell before I could get him to quiet down long enough for me to look up the number on the Internet. "Internet?" I told him to shut up. There was no listing for a Margaret Murray in Hurstpierpoint, Sussux. Timmy gave me the address and I was able to do a reverse-search for the name of the house's current occupants. John and Grace Murray, who were obviously decedents. I told Timmy that my parents are going to kill me when they see the phone bill. He was quiet for a second and then started to sob. I didn't know if it was because of sadness or confusion from all the technology. The phone rang twice before a man with a deep English accent answered. "Hello there", he said. I told him that I was calling from Canada and that I had a message to give to Margaret Anne Murray of Hurstpierpoint. "This is John Murray", he said. "Margaret is my mother." I explained to him that the message was from Timothy, Margaret's son, and what I would guess is your brother. I told John that Timmy's unhappy and in a dark place. He's scared and wants his mommy to come and get him. John didn't say a word for the next five minutes or so. I knew he was still there because his breathing was quite heavy and loud. After the long pause, he finally spoke. "Is this a humorous American joke? You American boys and your humor, how you always hurt others. How did you find out that name? Who are you?" I didn't know what to say. This was the first time that an English man had yelled at me. My inexperienced mind could only muster up my name and phone number and the word, "I'm sorry for your loss". Why did I say that? I hung up the phone in a panic. Timmy was still there, as I could feel his presence. "Was mommy there? Did you speak with her?" I froze not knowing what to say or how to explain my failure. "Your mommy was there. She misses you and will come get you soon, but you have to promise me to be a good boy. If you bother me again she may not come for you and leave you in the dark place." I immediately felt the pain in my heart. How could I say such a mean lie? "Oh thank you so much. You are my friend. I'm going to wait like a good patient little angel for mommy to get me." I never heard from
Timmy again. Hope that he has reunited with his mother and moved on
to heaven is too much to ask for. Even today I sometimes feel his presence
around me, silent, waiting patiently for mommy to get him. (Note from HH: **
graphic of Haley Joel Osmont provided by © Buena Vista Home Entertainment,
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