Someone asked me, a couple of days ago, how I knew whom the ghost was who visited me twice. The ghost just happened to be his brother. He wanted to know if the ghost told me who he was or just how I knew.
Ghosts tell me who they are in many ways. Sometimes it’s not what I’d expect as with his brother. His brother gave me a wash of information both going through my mind and in his own voice.
As I told this man, I don’t always ask who the ghost is. They’re around me all the time. It’s like walking down a crowded avenue where all the strangers brush past you. How many times do you stop one to ask who they are? That’s how it is with me unless they do something that catches my attention as his brother did. Then, most often, I’ll ask what I can do for them without asking for names. At times they let me know immediately with some innate sense who they are.
Ghosts make me comfortable. They’re my security blanket. You get friends from the other side, burglar alarms, doctors, you name it from the other side. They’re better than most encyclopedias with their wealth of information. And you know me. I always want information.
But I’m only so good at giving the information as I’m good at using all my senses, especially hearing.