Ghosts in the Margins
“Why do you always write that spooky stuff?” That’s what my grandma once asked me years ago—a beautiful Southern belle whose worldview was the complete opposite of spooky; focused on the importance of family, good cooking, and being kind to others… I miss her so much!
When she asked me that question, I simply smiled and said, “I just love the spooky stuff, Grandma.”
But the truth runs much deeper than that.
Ever since I was a child, I’ve had recurring encounters with the supernatural. I don’t mean movies or books, but real moments that would chill you to the bone. The kind that leave the room too quiet… or not quiet enough.
Too many times, I’ve heard my name whispered from the shadows. Too many times, I’ve felt a feather-soft touch from the other side. This has always been normal for me, but it’s not something you ever truly get used to… The watchers and talkers, the wanderers and the anchored, the strangers and the familiar—all reaching for those who will listen to them, all with something to say, or something to show you.
My favorite encounter has always been the one that came with solid proof and witnesses….
The spirit of an old medicine man began visiting me regularly when I was around 19. I’d see him in the twilight shadows, or hear him in daylight, and then meet him in dreams. In one particular dream, he held out a ceremonial bowl and said it had belonged to me in another lifetime. I took it and examined the strange design: an almond-shaped eye, with a square iris and a circular pupil. It had two marks that crossed one side of the sclera vertically, and one that crossed the other side in the same way. I’d never seen anything like it. But from that moment on, I became obsessed—I started recreating that eye in all of my artwork. It resonated so deeply in my soul, an echo from the other side—and it was loud.
My brother-in-law noticed. He saw this unusual design appearing repeatedly in my drawings, my paintings, my beadwork. Finally, he asked, “Why do you keep drawing that same weird eye over and over?” So, I told him about my dream. He laughed and called me weird. But I was used to that.
About a week later, he showed up unexpectedly on my porch. I opened the door, assuming he was there for his brother, but he said, “No. I came to see you.” He held out his hand and said: “I think this belongs to you.”
That morning, while beachcombing along the bayou, he had found something more incredible than any spearhead or fossil that he’d ever found in his searching—It was a pottery shard, carved with the exact eye from my dream. Every odd detail. Every line. It was MY eye.
He looked me in the eyes and said, “I’ll never doubt you again.”… And that was that.
That was a pivotal moment for me. The girl with secret ghosts had finally been seen… and I don’t mean by the brother-in-law. I mean, seen by the eye that was sent to remind me that it did not matter what others believed or didn’t believe, or if they laughed at me, because this was something tangible.
So, ghosts aren’t just stories, or things that go bump in the night. Not for me. They are family. They are memory. They are grief, and love, and longing—woven into porch rails and attic beams, tucked beneath floorboards, curled around the core of my soul. This is me.
I think I started writing the way I do to honor them. To capture them in ink. Maybe to understand them a little better. And sometimes… to make peace with the memories they’ve left me with, as I’ve done in my novel, Beneath the Black Oak. But that’s a story for another day.
The Pottery Eye:
Found on Choctawhatchee Bayou
in Choctaw Beach, Florida
P.S. I still keep this eye with me. It’s been over twenty years now, but that deep resonance has never gone away. It might just be a shard of clay to most people—but I know better.
Some truths are carved before we remember them— a living echo of what was and still is.
