I thought that since we have spent the last four weeks blogging about a relationship that was pretty terrible, this week we could blog about something a little different. Today, I would like to tell you about a recent investigation and Paranormal Event that I attended.
Over the course of my time in the paranormal industry, I have had the opportunity of being in some of the country’s most paranormal locations. But what I experienced at the Roads Hotel in Atlanta, Indiana has been one of the most intense. The Para Expeditions team had invited me to come up, do some Tarot Readings, and get a feel for this historic location. From the time I got there until the time I left, I was overloaded by psychic information. I have gotten ahead of myself, so let’s start back at the beginning.
It was Saturday, February the 11th and I climbed into my car and headed toward the Roads Hotel. The location is about four hours from where I lived so, I prepared for the lengthy journey by gathering some snacks, smokes, and an Audio book. Along the way, I stopped serval times to stretch my back out and replenish the snack supply. I even made a small detour to visit a Tourist trap that peaked my interest.
Eventually, I made it to the small town of Tipton, Indiana. Here, I was to meet two of my amazing clients at a restaurant named Los Portales. As always, I arrived 15 minutes early and sat in my car catching up on my Social Media. The longer I sat there waiting, a heavy feeling came over me. These feelings are hard to explain, but I will do my best. It was almost like someone at the Hotel was waiting for me. This was not someone from the Para Expeditions Team, but rather someone from the spirit world. It felt oppressive, angry, manic, and anxious. I had no idea who it was, all I knew is that it was expecting me.
Ahead of my clients Michele and Veronica, I went into Los Portales. I thought that getting out of the car and in a new environment would be a good idea. I was greeted by the hostess, settled in a booth, ordered a soda, and took a selfie. After only a couple of minutes waiting, Michele and Veronica came into the restaurant. It was wonderful to see Michele again and fantastic to meet Veronica.
As a Tarot Reader, who reads for people all over the world, you sometimes have amazing clients that you rarely ever get to see. We laughed, talked, and ordered our lunches. At some point, the feeling of dread and manic anticipation came back over me. Being hard to hide my feelings from my face, I thought it was best to explain this feeling to the ladies. Both understood and did their best to take my mind off it. Sadly, I remained distracted and pensive.
After lunch, the ladies and I parted ways. Googled directions to get to the Roads and headed toward the hotel. Here is where I would like to interject some humor. Being a small town, the roads were poorly signed and every small country alley seemed like the one before it. As one turn made another, I nearly hit a major road block. A cock block, actually. Two streets before the Hotel, a huge rooster waltzed out in front of my car. Not wanting to kill someone’s prized cock, I slowed down and waited for him to cross the street. The bastard stopped right ahead of me, defiant and refusing to move. I gave the horn a honk and edged toward him and nothing, he remained unyielding. Out loud and to myself I shouted, “Only I would get cock blocked on my way to a Hotel!” Sadly, there was a car fast coming up behind me and I had no time to snap a picture and create the world’s best meme.
After the rooster crossed the road and I made a few more turns, I made it to the Roads Hotel. It was a large, Sand colored house with a beautiful two story porch across the front. You could tell that the building had seen better days, but could also see that it was once the jewel of the community. I parked the car on the side of the building, gathered my bags, and walked toward the side door. Again, the feeling I had carried for most of the trip returned. I didn’t want to go in the building. I didn’t feel like the building wanted me to enter, either.
Luckily, Amy Perry Lane from Para Expeditions was getting out of her car and I ran over the get some love. Amy is a fantastic gal and a pretty gifted Intuitive, also. She is a no nonsense type of rock chick with a tremendous spirit and the warmest eyes. She introduced me to Gail, who owns the hotel and I recounted the cock block story to lift the energy and break the tension between me and whatever was inside the hotel. We talked for a second and the headed inside, all of us carrying our fair share of bags and supplies.
When I crossed the threshold, I felt like time had stopped. The energy in the hotel was stagnant and thick. Almost immediately, I heard the spirits of women and men talking. And although it was a decent temperature outside, I felt a haunting chill on the back of my neck. In a corner next to the door, I sat down my bags and proceeded to walk through the Hotel.
As I passed through several rooms, I could feel the presence of men watching me and questioning my intentions. I could hear them whisper, I could smell their cigars, and I could feel their eyes on me. Needing to go to the restroom and not wanting to enter the restroom that was on the first floor, I went upstairs.
The stairway was a very interesting place on its own. Going up the stairs, I felt children rush passed me and run down the second floor hall. When my hand touched the beautifully carved wood banister, I felt my entire personality change. I flashed to the image of a woman in a tattered dress, walking ahead of a man who was close behind me and grabbing at my backside. I felt sweaty, unclean, and full of remorse.
Against the walls and in the door frames of the rooms, women were standing or peering out at me. These women were clearly not from our time, but from a time in the early 1900’s and were sex workers from the Brothel days of the Roads Hotel. Many of them knew I was no danger to them and that I was not another John. One or two of the spirits were happy to see me, while a few others were disinterested and indifferent to my presence.
Each room that I passed seemed darker than the one before it. Eventually, I made it to the restroom and stopped at the doorway. The door was open, but I psychically felt that it wasn’t. I felt like I should be banging on the door, screaming into the room, demanding someone to come out. I have no explanation for why this happened. Gail had no historical reasons for why I had this feeling.
Toward the end of the hall, I could see two doorframes that did not have women standing in them. I made my way toward these rooms and wondered why they seemed empty. I came to the door on the right of the hall and felt as if I had my breath taken from me. “I can’t breathe,” I said to Gail. She explained that this was the room where a man died of Tuberculosis and it all made sense to me. I did not go any further into that room. I stopped at the door and only looked inside. There was nothing for me to see there, but a bed in a darkened room.
However, on the other side of the hall, I came to meet the spirit that had been waiting for me. I knew it as soon as I turned toward the room. Inside, I saw a man pacing back and forth across the floor. His energy was manic, depressing, judgmental, and sad. He turned, faced me, and marched toward the door. I stopped dead in my tracks. I could not and would not enter that room. He came right up to my face, yelling. I could feel his animosity for me and smell his unclean body. I was transfixed by his anger and his sorrow. Just then, from down the hall, a couple shouted to me, “Not going in that room?” I said no and tried to make a joke of it. Later, Gail explained that this was the room of a Preacher who was rumored to have committed suicide in the room. By this time, I had enough and needed a cigarette break.
I turned back down the hall and headed toward the staircase. As I made my way down the steps, I saw a woman lying in the floor. She had fallen or been pushed to her death. Her hair was tangled, her dressed ripped, and her eyes were glazed over. At the foot of the steps, Amy Perry Lane said out loud, “Ken, don’t you feel like someone was killed here? Like, I feel like there is a woman lying here that had been pushed.” All I could do is look at her with my mouth open. I looked at Mike Smith, another amazing Para Expeditions team member and explained that I had also sensed what Amy was saying. He didn’t seem surprised. Mike is well experienced in the paranormal, not a whole lot shocks or surprises our Mike.
As I walked out the side door, I could finally breathe again. I turned to Gail and asked her to feel my heart. It was pounding and quick, like I had just ran a race. I recounted everything that I experienced in the building and she confirmed nearly everything I had picked up on. Mike then turned to me and asked how I was and said I looked panicked. He was right. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to read cards in that building and I definitely wasn’t sure I would be able to sleep there. It was far too intense.
Here is a great place to stop for this week. When we continue next week, I will tell you more about the spirits of Roads Hotel, reading Tarot there, and why I refused to spend the night. To be continued…
A few weeks ago, we began a journey into understanding my relationship with my father and how I view it through the lens of the Tarot. This week, we finish this discussion about that relationship and how it has shaped me into the person that I have become. I have decided to do so through a letter. Please indulge me.
Many years have passed since we last spoke to each other and a lot of things have changed since I last laid eyes on you. I have grown up now and I have become someone I always knew I’d be. I am sure that it would repulse and disgust you, but I am happy. I am sure that you would be ashamed, but I feel light as a feather and sleep like a baby.
On a daily basis, I fight to be everything I have dreamed of, the man I am supposed to be, and nothing at all like you. I see our relationship clearly now and find myself at peace with it. Actually, that may be a lie. At the very least, I understand what happened between us and view it as a learning experience.
Because of you, I learned never to judge others; instead, I value others. I value people based on their heart, their character, and their potential to be amazing. I choose not to condemn them, chastise them, or make them feel less. I see people as they are, inherently born with a gift and great potential.
If it wasn’t for you, I would never have understood the darkness and why it is important I fight it. If it wasn’t for you, I would never be able to clearly see the negative attachments people carry in their lives. If it wasn’t for you, I would have never been able to help others release themselves from deep-rooted pain and suffering. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t understand the Devil and how it can suck the life from you.
Every day, I wake up and do battle with my own darkness. I don’t always win and those are the days I feel most in touch with you. During my darkest periods, I would sometimes pass by a mirror and see your shadow where my light should have been. All too often, I hear you in my voice when I have lost my temper and became violently angry. I guess you would say, “That the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.” But I would rather like to think of myself as the entire fruit basket.
There are very few moments of our time together that I remember fondly. In good will, I will recount them here. I remember how you once made me a Batman mask out of Ductape and how I wore it until it reeked. I remember going to the lake and having one hour of calm and peace with you. I remember the stories you told and your love of art. I remember you being the first person to ever play Janis Joplin, Aretha Franklin, James Brown, and The Eagles for me. I remember how you used to sometimes dance down the hall when you would first wake up. But believe me, these few memories are the only ones I have of you that didn’t end in sadness and disappointment.
Someone asked me last week what I thought your punishment should be for all you did to hurt our family. I gave the question some thought and came to a startling conclusion. You are already living your punishment. You are old, broken, alone, and will never lay eyes on your son for the rest of your days. This is punishment enough. Just know that if things were different, I would have always been loyal and true to you. If you had unconditionally loved me, there would never have been a moment when your son wasn’t by your side. Sadly, you did this. Now, we both have to live with it.
Take care of yourself, Dad. I wish you well and all the peace in the world. What is most important here is that I truly mean it, from me to you. Thank you for making me work harder, be stronger, and have the courage to live true to myself. Thank you for teaching me to not take shit. That is something that will always come in use. Lastly, I want to thank you for proving that family isn’t always defined by the blood in our veins, but by unconditional love for another person.
All my Love,
Last week, we began a journey into understanding my relationship with my father and how I view it through the lens of the Tarot. This week, we will continue discussing this relationship and how it has shaped me into the person that I have become.
The most heartbreaking card of the Tarot and the one we will be discussing today is the three of Swords. This card is illustrated by a large heart, stabbed by three swords and bleeding, as rain pours in the background. No other card in the Tarot comes close to defining the memory of my father that I will now share with you.
One day in 2000, when I was only 15 years old, my father did something as unforgettable as it was unforgiveable. On this day, my father ripped out my heart, shattered it and never offered to replace the pieces. This is the day that my father proved he never truly loved me.
It happened on a rainy day, after school in late August. Instead of walking out of the building and finding my Granny waiting to take me home, I saw my father in his car. This was very strange to me. Funny enough, I was excited to see him. I remember there was a James Brown tape playing in the cassette deck of the car. I was wearing blue jeans, sneakers, and a fleece camel colored sweater. That last piece is important for reasons I’ll mention later.
On the way home, he chained smoked. He lit one cigarette after the other and dodged every positive thing I had to say about the day. But that didn’t stop me from trying to engage him and make him happy. Try as I did, I couldn’t seem to talk over the tension between us.
When we got home, we got out of the car and walked towards the house. “When we get inside, I want you to put your things in the room, change clothes, and meet me in the kitchen.” he instructed me. I did everything he asked of me, with the exception of changing clothes. I couldn’t waste time being bothered with that, I knew what he had to say was too important to worry with it.
So, as quick as I could, I went to meet him in the kitchen. He was leaning against the countertop, smoking another cigarette, and gestured that I take a seat in a chair that was sitting in the middle of the room. As I took a seat, I could feel my heart pounding in my ears and couldn’t take a deep enough breath. I knew something terrible was about to happen.
“Do you know anything about cookies and browser history?” he asked me. Having never had access to the internet much in my life, I had no idea what he was talking about. “Because I do and I have been through yours.” Again, I had no idea what it meant but I knew for sure what I had been looking at on the internet. “You’ve been on my computer watching gay shit, looking at pictures, reading about queers, and other shit.” He was right. As a 15 year old boy, who was struggling with his sexuality, those were the very things I was looking at. I put my head down and tried not to swallow my tongue. “You ain’t even going to deny it.” And no, I didn’t. I couldn’t even breathe, let alone form the words to lie.
He pushed away from the countertop and marched toward the computer that was sitting in the living room. He demanded that I follow him and I did. He went to computer and sat in front of it. He moved the mouse and the screensaver exposed all of the stuff I had been watching. He had pulled up every site and went through them, one by one.
With every click, he shamed me. “You are disgusting. This is sick. YOU are sick.” More than any of those, he repeated over and over that it and I was an abomination to God and evil. When he finally finished his demonstration of my filth, he demanded I go back into the kitchen. As I turned my back to him, I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my head. When I got to the kitchen, I sat back down in my designated seat.
“You disgust me. I don’t know what I am about to do to you. I can’t even stand to look at you. I want you to go to your room and wait for me. I am going to have a talk with God and God will tell me what to do.” My father often had, “conversations with God.”
I sat in that room, absolutely panicked. What would God say about me? I knew what the Bible said about what should happen to me. After all, one of my father’s favorite living room sermons was on abominations and God’s punishment for those who were guilty.
After about an hour of me crying and rocking back and forth, alone in the room, I heard him stomp down the hall. Suddenly, the bedroom door swung open and he stepped inside the room. He was livid, his eyes were terrifying. I had rarely seen his face so full of rage.
“God says you’re a faggot and that I should beat the queer out of you,” he shouted. “God condemns you and everything about you. You are an embarrassment. You are disgusting and have shamed God, me, your family, and our family name. You and your whore mother have destroyed our family. I hate you.”
He stomped and paced about the room, screaming and cussing. Occassionally, he would stop pacing and put his finger in my face and threaten my life. I was petrified. I knew he was angrier and more disturbed than I had ever seen him and that was a scary thought. He walked back to the bedroom door, “I am going back to talk to God.” he said.
This process happened multiple times. Each time he would relent, I would quietly pick up the phone and call people for help. I called everyone. I even called my mother whose boyfriend, later husband, answered. He explained that there was no room for me and my gayness at their house and that I was on my own. He said my mother didn’t want to even talk to me about it. So, I called my boyfriend at the time and I developed a plan.
It went like this… I would beg God and my father’s forgiveness and vow to never be “gay again.” I would do what I could to get through the night safely and return to school the next day. And as the night went on, that is what I did. I lied about myself, sold myself out, and begged not to be beaten. Eventually, my pleading and begging worked and my father told me to go to bed.
I didn’t sleep that night; instead, I cried and waited for the morning to come. When it did, I didn’t even change clothes. I went to school in the same thing I wore the day before, changing clothes felt insignificant. Getting out of the house in one piece was all I cared about. I gathered my savings bonds that totaled $600, whatever clothes I could fit in my bag, and left for school. My uncle took me to school that day and refused to speak to me the entire way there. Clearly, he and dad had a discussion about me and “what I was.”
When I went into the school, I felt relief. I knew I was somewhere safe, where all I had to fear were the usual bullies and not the one I just left at home. Waiting for me at the end of a long hallway stood a group of my friends. As I walked closer, they could see I was a mess and that something terrible had happened. As they got closer, I collapsed in tears and started gasping for air. When I could finally speak, I told them what happened and asked for any help they could offer me. They each said the same thing: I was in danger and that I needed to talk to a teacher.
About that time, a teacher walked up on the scene. She asked me what was wrong and swallowing my tears, I told her the whole story. I asked her if there was any way I could go to the library and look into calling social services or someone that could protect me. She said yes and encouraged me to do so.
After hours of research and multiple missed classes, I finally came across something that proved to be my liberation… filing for emancipation; essentially, divorcing my parents and allowing me to live on my own. If I could prove I had a place to go, a job to work, and the means of staying in school, I never had to return to the abuse of my father ever again.
First, I called Social Services and explained what happened. I booked an appointment with a Social Worker for later that evening. After that, I called an Attorney who seemed uneasy about doing so, but agreed to help me. And then, I called my boyfriend. I told him to collect and cash my savings bonds, get us an apartment, and find me a job as fast as he could. He did everything I asked of him.
Near the end of the day, after all of my ducks were in a row, I went to the Vice-Principal’s office. I told him what my father did, what the Social Worker said, and told him that he needed to call in my father so I could explain that I was not going to be coming home. Also, I suggested that the Vice-Principal should call the police. He did and within the hour, all parties were present.
My father walked in the room and I told him the truth: I was gay, I was going to be emancipated from his abuse, and that I was never going to be alone with him again. His only response was that he hoped how soon I would die and that he never wanted to see me again. I have done my best to make sure that I granted his wish.
That is why we can’t possibly talk about my father without discussing the 3 of Swords. The card itself is about grief, loss, and emotional despair. It so perfectly embodies that rainy day in 2000, as it does many of my memories of my father.
Last week we began a journey into understanding my relationship with my father and how I view it through the lens of the Tarot. This week, we will continue discussing this relationship and how it has shaped me into the person that I have become.
My father, above many other things, considered himself the perfect Christian. He was a man who knew the Bible forwards and backwards, but one of the biggest sinners I have ever known. He memorized and recited every abomination listed in Leviticus and Proverbs, but chose to ignore all those that pertained to his life. He was a liar, womanizer, lustful, and cruel. For these reasons, I refer to my father as the Heirophant and the Devil.
Like the upright Heirophant, my father was a great story teller and did impart various pieces of hard-earned wisdom. Traditionally, in the Tarot, the Heirophant was used to represent the Church. Also, the card would represent Priests and other spiritual leaders. However, my father was a perversion of this card and its meaning. As the inverted Heirophant, my father would reference his biblical knowledge only to judge and oppress others. Like many other “Perfect Christians,” he was a great hypocrite.
Much like the Devil, my father rarely ever had my best interest in mind. For as long as I can remember, my father was deceitful, self-serving, and malicious. And like the Devil, my father could never be pleased. He kept many of those who knew him in a constant Hell-state, completely void of joy and or light.
My first memory of my father is how he punished us. Each of us got the switch, got the belt, and was abused in some way. My earliest memory of my father is him pulling my sister from a high chair and throwing her to the floor. He did this because she had spilt her milk. Several times, I watched him attack my mother. He did this with anything he could reach or rip off a wall. One of saddest memories I have is seeing him kick my sister off of him because she ran to hug his leg. Again, he was devoid of any real light or actual love.
When my parents divorced, we spent the weekends with my father. Truth be told, we spent them with my Granny because he was always out, working, or sleeping until it was time for us to go to bed. But every Sunday, we got up at 9am for church. And by 10am, we would be fed, bathed, and dressed to perfection.
One Sunday, we woke up to find that our father was not up before us and had made no preparations for church. We waited until 9:30, but his bedroom door never opened. Shortly, 10am came, and we still hadn’t laid eyes on him. So, my sisters and I went about packing to return to Mom’s later in the afternoon. As we did, he eventually woke up and came out of his bedroom.
I remember the following vividly, he came stomping and wild-eyed from his darkened bedroom. His anger hit me in the chest before he made it half way down the hall. As he came closer, I noticed that there was bruising and dried blood under his eye. Immediately, we each asked what happened. Quickly, my Granny hushed us because she knew the answer to our question would enrage him and it did.
“Your whore mother did this!!! She was up at the bar last night and she attacked me.” This was often how he spoke of our mother so none of us were really altogether surprised. “She was up there with some whore-hoppers, low lives, and drunkards.” Neither of us questioned how he managed to find himself at this bar. On some level, we understood that this was not up for discussion. “I want you all packed right now, I am taking you back up to the bitch.”
As fast as he said it, we rushed to gather our things and fought back tears while we did so. In the background, I could hear my Granny tell him to calm down and suggested that he call the police and file some sort of charges. He declined, threatened Mom’s life, and lit another cigarette.
You all done in there?! Are you ready?!” he screamed, after coughing the smoke from his lungs.
“We’re on our way dad!” my sister Rhea responded. Rhea was always good with him. She was our spokesperson. She had a way of responding to “his beast” that would ease the tension. But sadly, her response wasn’t pleasant enough for him and we heard him stomping down the hall. I remember looking as fast as I could for the rest of my things and shutting my door.
On the other side of that door, he was losing his mind. I could hear him screaming and cursing about how we would not shout back at him. That he would not accept our disrespect; which, to his perspective, was us defending our mother. “She’s a whore! A damned slut!” I heard him scream.
Eventually, we had our things in trash bags and we piled into his dark blue, 90’s Oldsmobile. As I settled in my seat, I noticed that there was a large crack in the windshield. None of us said a word.
When we arrived home to our mother, we were sure we would find her in terrible shape. Visions of her eyes being swollen or her lip busted ran through my mind. However, I was wrong. We walked into our mother’s house and saw her looking quite well! She had perfect makeup, her hair was done, and she was smiling.
As the door closed behind us, we heard him punch the gas of his car, spin gravel out into the yard, and shout more about my mother and how he would have us taken away from her. She stood quietly while this happened, almost solemn. Once he was gone, she opened her arms and said, “My babies are back home.” This was the first time I realized that sun was shining. Maybe it had been the entire morning, but this was the first time I was clear minded enough to take it in.
Rhea immediately put her clothes in her bedroom and speedily came into the living room. She wanted, as all of us did, to know exactly what happened and why he looked worse for wear. At first, my mother didn’t want us to know what happened. But eventually, she began to tell us pieces of the true story.
“I got a phone call from some Rip that your daddy was up at the bar last night and that he was with some bitch.” Funny thing was, mom smiled as she continued. “You didn’t know me and your daddy was trying to work things out, but we have been. And then I get that call to prove to me he ain’t nothing, but a cheating asshole.”
“I went up to the bar,” she continued. “I got dressed up, put my make up on, and I went up there. When I walked in, he was sitting in the corner with (a woman I will not name here.) She was sitting in his lap. I walked right up and told them both to go to Hell and that she could have his ass.
That’s when I went back out to the parking lot. Your daddy followed me and grabbed ahold of me. He pushed me against his car and I pushed him off. Then, I hauled back with my fist and busted him right in the face. I grabbed a post off the ground and tried to bust his window. He ain’t gonna treat me that way.” This was her side of the events and they seemed to match up with how their interactions usually went.
I don’t know what actually happened that night. Even the memory of that day is clouded by my desire not to fully relive it. Was he there with another woman? Most likely. Did mom bust him in the face and his windshield? I don’t know. All I know is that on this particular day, the Devil won and we never made it to church.