Custom Sensor Solutions, Inc.Custom Sensor Solutions, Inc.In the spring of 1993, Pat came to my house for a visit. By that time, I was very happy and comfortable in my home. There was still a lot of spirit activity, but it was not threatening; it seemed natural.
Pat went through each room, and then, as we sat in the living room, she said, "The spirit of an old woman is standing in front of us. Do you see her?"
"No," I said, "but I can feel her presence."
"She has long white hair which she has pulled back and she's wearing an old fashioned purple dress." Pat paused for a moment and then went on. "Apparently, she sits in your upstairs hall window seat and looks out over the grave of her young daughter."
"I wonder if she's the one Roger saw in our window the night you cleared our house of spirits?" I said. Then something else, more startling, occurred to me. "You know, Pat," I said, "shortly after we moved into our house, a patch of grass on the front lawn died out under our white pine tree. No matter what we tried, from fertilizing to reseeding with shade grass, nothing would stay long on that spot. We soon realized that the bare patch resembled the shape of a child's small coffin. We kidded each other about this over the years. But now, it seems, the shape of that patch was not a coincidence."
"Apparently, she's been trying to get through to you for a long time. Did she ever tell you her name?" asked Pat.
"No," I said.
"Let's see if she'll tell us now," said Pat. We sat there in silence for a few short moments before the name "Agatha" was spoken clearly in my head. I decided not to speak up. I wanted to see if Pat would hear it, too.
"I'm getting 'Agatha'," she said at last.
"So did I!" I said, excited that I'd been able to receive this information just by asking. What were the odds that we'd both come up with such an uncommon name together, purely by chance?
Then Pat continued, "She's a woman with a very sad story, and she wants you to tell it."
"How on earth could I do that?" I asked. "I just found out her name now, after all this time. It would take me years to get her story, assuming I got it right."
"She can't leave until her story's been told, and she expects you to tell it," Pat insisted. "Each day, sit on the stairs with a pen and pad ready. Tell Agatha you've come to write her story; then write down whatever comes into your mind. It will take time, but you'll be amazed at how accurate it is. Just don't second guess the words that come into your mind. And once you get started, you'll be able to write her story anywhere in the house."
I agreed to try. That night, after supper, I sat on the stairs and said, aloud, "I'm here to write your story, Agatha." Then I closed my eyes to relax and wait. The vision of a woman's head and shoulders came in to my mind, and the following words started to flow, "My name is Agatha Wilson. I am 49 years old..."
Current May 26, 1998
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