The Ghosts of White bear lake.
As I entered the old wooden structure, I at once feel a swirl of energy. People from the past who all laid claim to this old house at one time or another are going about their business. I half expected the old lace draperies to move in unison with the force of their energy.
A cook. A woman in a long white dress. A man in a fancy suite, a pocket watch and chain in hand. A child’s footsteps vibrate along the wooden planks above my head.
A group of ladies from the historical society had asked me to visit. To “see” what I would get from the house. What stories I could tell.
One woman carrying a set of books about the history of the house was giving credence to my tales.
As I acclimate, get my bearings, a story forms. The man with the chains says he is the seventh son of a seventh son and he is proud of this home, though he doesn’t live here.
The woman with the books corroborates my story. Explaining that the man in the suite may be the father to the woman in white and that he built this house. 
In the next moment I hear as well as see the woman in a long white gown descend the steps to my left. Small and regal with hair perfectly set high upon her head. Clearly she is the lady of the house.
As I move about the house explaining what I see, the ladies from the society, begin to ask me questions.
“What does the woman in white have to say?” “Who was the child in the nursery and how did he die?”
It can be challenging to explain what the dead have to say about a place they once lived. At times I merely pick up the coming and going of an average day in the life of the house. More of a residual energy than an actual presence.
Sometimes the people that lived, love, and died in a place have very strong opinions and very much want to share what they have to say.
More on this coming soon…
The Ghosts of White bear lake.
I was only half focused on the conversation circling around me.
My senses kept pulling me away from the present day. My mind drifting to the sights, sounds and smells from an era long ago.
Damp leaves, wood smoke, the crisp air of fall. I blink my eyes and the picture changes before me. I’m no longer sitting in the kitchen of my newly met neighbors. Somehow, I am outside on a cloudy fall evening. Ash and smoke all around me. I see what’s left of a ramshackle building, more of a lean to really, just the doorway and half a log wall remained.
I feel him more than see him sitting on the stump. He has an old fashioned liquor bottle raised to his lips. He pulls on the bottle like an orphaned animal weaned too young. He is in need of the comfort this bottles contains.
Christine Schroeder Intuitive Medium 