I stood on the back of the large truck belonging to my friend Marilyn’s father. It was parked in what I perceived to be at the time, a huge shed. I paused for a moment, as an inner voice told me that a large hare would soon appear from around the bend, and over the brow of the hill that led from the town centre. It would dash past me at great speed and disappear up the hill and into the distance. I didn’t understand how I knew this would happen - just that it would.
I was about seven or eight years old and lived in the small town of Waiuku. Marilyn - or Maz, as we called her, was my best friend at the time. I loved going to her house. She came from a large family, having six sisters and one brother. They lived next to a park, which gave us ample room to play, so we had many fun times together.
On this particular afternoon, we had climbed up on the tray of her father’s truck to play, when I had the strange experience - or premonition, about the hare. I had never seen a hare before, but I knew the animal in my vision wasn’t a rabbit, it was far too big for that.
Within moments I heard a scurrying noise as the hare came into sight. It was going hell for leather on the tar-sealed road, and was about the size of a small dog. To my young eyes it seemed to be doing a hundred miles an hour. It was not the place one would expect to see such an animal. It had come from the direction of town, and headed out into the country area. Not the other way round as one would expect.
In that instance, my mind was also racing, as the hare carried on up the road and disappeared around another bend. What had just happened? I looked at my friends but they seemed oblivious as to what had just occurred. They had seen the hare, but how could I tell them that I knew it was going to be there. For a moment I felt like I was out of my body, it was such a surreal feeling. It was like tripping into another dimension and back. I stood there with my mouth agape, knowing I couldn’t tell another soul about the experience. My mother would certainly never believe me, and I didn’t want my friends to think I was weird, so I just put the experience behind me and didn’t think about it again for many years, after recovering from the initial shock. This was just the beginning of a life time of strange experiences.
I must have been about seven when most of my experiences began - maybe they began earlier, I don’t remember. It is possible that my conscious mind can only remember that far back.
I remember our dog Whisky, a lovely black and white terrier/spaniel cross, waking me up one night, trying to claw her way under my bedcovers and whining loudly. She was in a state of panic.
“Stop it girl!” I scolded. “I’m trying to sleep.”
But she persisted in whining and crying, while pawing at my bed. I sat up to see what was disturbing her, but what I witnessed, almost made my blood run cold. There between my bed and the door, was a little girl floating in mid air. She had lovely blonde hair with a large white ribbon on one side of her head. The strange thing was - only her head and shoulders appeared to me, floating a few feet above the floor, so I knew she couldn’t be a living person.
I rubbed my eyes and dared myself to take another peek, but there she was, still was floating before my eyes with a smile on her pretty face. I became terrified, and kept on rubbing my eyes hoping she would go away. But no, there she stayed, smiling sweetly at me.
Whisky became even more distressed, so I screamed for my mother to come and rescue me. She called back, telling me that I was just dreaming and to go to sleep. She usually dismissed my experiences as being just an over active imagination. This time I kept on screaming. I knew by my dog’s behaviour, that she too, could see this unworldly apparition.
Eventually the girl disappeared and I tore into my mother’s bed. I often ended up sleeping in her big bed, as my father was a baker who worked every night - except on Fridays and Saturdays. Sometimes I would lay awake waiting for him to leave the house, so I could sneak into their big bed. I felt much safer there, and nothing spooky seemed to happen after I snuggled under the blankets with my mum.
The odd thing about the girl in my room was, that I’d seen her in a dream earlier in the evening. I’d been playing with her in the garden, and we were having a wonderful time, but when she was still there after I awoke, I became frightened. I believe now, I was with her during an out-of-the-body experience.
The house where we lived in France Street terrified me. I am not sure to this day whether it was haunted, or whether it was because I was seven years old and just attracting these things to myself. Seven is the number of spirit, and in ancient cultures, children born under a seven vibration were put in religious orders to train as monks. However, the age seven is very significant, particularly for a child who is a seven day born such as myself. It can often trigger psychic phenomena and strange dreams, illnesses etc. I have worked as a numerologist for more than thirty years, and have often seen these events occur with other 7 day born children. (Children born on the 7th, 16th, or 25th. To clarify: 1+6=7, 2+5=7).
Having a destiny number of eleven was significant for me. (This is found by the numerological value of the entire name). This number can produce great psychic ability, and anyone having this number in such a position, probably will end up teaching at some point in their life.
So many children I come across these days, seem to have an abundance of the sacred numbers, and I know how terrifying it can be, especially when no-one listens to them, or takes the time to understand.
My own childhood was very frightening at times, as psychic phenomena was a fairly common thing for me. Having no-one to explain things left me feeling desolate, and isolated, most of the time. I always felt ‘different’, but never understood why - which is common to ‘seven’ people.
I wondered why I could not just be normal like other people.
It was one Friday evening while my parents were still at the bakery working, when a frightening event occurred. My mother worked in our shop, while Dad baked the bread in his bakery just across an alley-way between the two buildings. My older brother David must have been at a friend’s house. I was alone in the house with Whisky as darkness fell - from memory it was about seven o’clock. Suddenly, I felt my blood curdle, as footsteps came from my brother’s room at the front of the house. The footsteps were very loud, as whoever was making them moved backwards and forwards in the empty room. The room was un-carpeted and it was obvious that something - or someone was in there, as the footsteps fell heavily upon the bare wooden floor. David was still not home - I would have had to unlock the door to let him in.
Once again, Whisky started going berserk, tearing around the room in circles in a terrified manner. Eventually she tried to claw her way out of the back door. I felt the hair on the back of my neck start to rise as goose-bumps formed all over my body. The heavy footsteps got louder. I don’t think I have ever been as terrified as I was at that moment, especially being all alone in the house. I knew my parents wouldn’t be much longer, but I couldn’t wait. I ran to the back door and unlocked it. Whisky and I fell over each other trying to get out of the place in terror. I don’t remember where she went, but I grabbed my bike - which had no light, and headed off into the darkness towards town and the sanctuary of my parent’s bakery. It was hard to see where I was going, and I hit a bank at the end of the path and fell off the bike.
Undeterred, I climbed back on and kept going, arriving at the bakery cut and bleeding - once again to be told I had a vivid imagination. I know what I heard, and Whisky certainly felt something was amiss. They say dogs and children have a sixth sense. Whisky was like my own ‘spook meter’ - if she sensed what I was sensing simultaneously – it couldn’t have been my imagination.
My mother was a very down to earth person, and considered delving into the unknown as being ‘unhealthy.’ My father was a bit more open minded on the subject, but he worked such long hours and slept during most of the day, so I rarely got to talk about such things with him.
My father saw a white figure standing in our garden late one night on his way to work. Mum dismissed it, saying it must have been a neighbour - who was a bit odd, out for a walk in his Long Johns. I believe otherwise.
I was always afraid to go into our garage to get my bike. I felt something was not right in there, and the energy was always cold. There were many trees at the bottom of our garden which cast foreboding shadows. I felt okay being amongst them during the day, but would avoid the area if dusk was falling. Beyond the trees lay a field and the local cemetery. I was fascinated whenever a funeral was taking place, asking my parents endless questions about death and dying, which to my mind were never satisfactorily answered. I would watch over the back fence and wonder what had become of the poor soul being buried.
I asked my mother if Marilyn and I could have a picnic lunch packed on one particular day. She obliged, and my friend and I went to the cemetery for a picnic. I remember vividly, sitting on a grave stone playing my green ukulele while singing to the dearly departed - singing and dancing were my passion. If my mother had known, she would have thought I’d gone completely mad. I felt no fear during daylight hours, it was only when darkness fell that terror set in. I was obsessed even back then with death and dying - and what came next.
I became quite ill when I was seven years old. As I arose from my bed one morning, I fell over, hurting myself as I hit the opposite wall. Looking very tired and pale, I was sent off to hospital, which was very traumatic for me. I was diagnosed with pneumonia and kept in for about three weeks. I have since had pneumonia, and there was no similarity at all to the earlier affliction. As usual, I had the doctors stumped. This would be a trend that would follow me throughout my life. I had - yet again, one of those strange, vague illnesses we 7’s tend to get, which remain undiagnosed.
For me, a spell in hospital could be likened to being in a torture chamber, as I was confronted daily with people being sick. This I will speak of later, but to this day, I have a morbid fear of vomiting. When I was first admitted, the doctors had a terrible time putting a spatula down my throat to examine me. It would touch the back of my throat making me gag. I was so afraid of being sick, I fought with every fiber of my being. One by one, more members of the nursing staff came to hold me down. I ended up being held down on the bed by six nurses and an assortment of doctors. My mother thought they were killing me, I created such a din. As for me - I felt helpless and out of control, making my stay in hospital terrifying.
Eventually I was sent home, but being all alone while my mother worked, once again struck fear into my young heart - even though my father slept in the next room, exhausted from his nights work.
The house was old with scrim on the walls, and when the wind blew, the wallpaper would literally move away from the walls, making an eerie sound.
I was sent away to recuperate with acquaintances of my mother. I believe they were relatives of a lady who worked in our shop. However, they were strangers to me, and I felt very apprehensive. On the journey to the beach north of Auckland, one of the other children was sick in the car, which set off a major anxiety attack for me.
When evening came round, I was to sleep in an old out building - separate from the beach house, with the old grandmother. I huddled up in the old bed in the shabby room, looking at the cobwebs which hung down from the ceilings and walls, wondering what would land on me during the night. I began to sob quietly, feeling desolate and alone. The old lady heard me, but instead of words of comfort and a hug, she told me to stop that nonsense at once, and to stop behaving like a baby. I wanted to curl up and die, or at least go home to my parents. Even the scary old house we lived in was better than this. The remainder of my time there was miserable. I wasn’t allowed to swim because of my illness, so I sat watching while the others romped in the surf having fun, feeling very dejected and afraid. In my mind, I felt like I’d been abandoned, and would never find my way home again.
This may have been the point in time, which triggered feelings of deep loneliness from within me, which would follow me into my latter years. A feeling of never being understood, or that I even mattered at all. Years later I suffered a breakdown - during my late twenties, after experiencing more loneliness in a difficult marriage.
As an adult and parent, I am aware my mother couldn’t have done much else – taking her situation at the time into consideration. She probably thought I would enjoy myself with the other children, but I was not like other children, and never would be. It was only in later years, I would come to enjoy my solitude, and celebrate my uniqueness.
I often hear people say that our childhood years, are the best years of our life. I guess there are a few who can say that with conviction, but in my case, nothing could have been further from the truth. Being a psychic child was like a journey through hell at times, and I was so sensitive to my surroundings and other people, it often made my life a misery - or made me ill. I’m not saying it was always like that - there were wonderful times, especially at Christmas, and the few times the family stayed with friends in Hamilton, or Orua Bay. Because my parents worked long hours in the bakery, those times were few and far between, much to my dismay – and theirs too I would imagine. I am aware however, that they always did their best for me and I am appreciative of the fact.
We emigrated to New Zealand when I was three years old, and my brother eight. It was May 1952, when we left our home in Canvey Island, Essex, to make our way up to Scotland to board the ship that would bring us to this beautiful country. We sailed from Glasgow on the S.S. Captain Cook.
My father was to work for his uncle in Rotorua at his bakery. Dad was an only child, and although he had to leave his elderly mother behind, the wrench was far greater for my mother. She came from a large family of five girls, and three boys. Her mother had passed away when I was only about six months old, and her birth father died when she was only four. She did however, still have her step-father, my granddad Green.
The day we left, all of the family were at the railway station to see us off. As the train pulled away from the platform, I stood on the table between the rows of seats, trying to curtsy gracefully. One of the family had been teaching me how. The train jerked and I lost my balance, falling into the arms of one of my parents. That was the last memory I have of my grandfather, his face, as we went out of his life forever.
We arrived in Wellington in June 1952, and made our way to Frankton in the Waikato by train. It was the middle of the night, and cold. Having to catch a bus back to Rotorua - which was between the Wellington and Frankton, seemed a strange thing to do, as we had to back track part of the journey, but the immigrant train had been organized, so that’s what was required.
It was a rude shock for my poor mother. She thought she had come to hell. The smell of the sulphur and the earth tremors made her want to catch the next boat back home. For those readers outside of New Zealand, and not familiar with our terrain, Rotorua is a thermal region with steam rising from the vents and drains at the sides of the road. There are boiling mud pools, geysers, and hot springs.
Unfortunately, the smell of sulphur was very strong in the area we lived. There is now a thriving tourist industry in the region, but it was probably not the best area for a homesick new arrival to be deposited in - with two small children, while her husband lived elsewhere.
We lived with my father’s aunt and uncle, but it was a very difficult time. They were not accustomed to having two young children in their home, and I believe there were occasions when differences of opinions arose, making my mother very angry.
We eventually moved into our own place. My poor mother did not find the going very easy. Not only was she homesick, but my father had to work in his uncle’s bakery in Ngongataha, a few miles away. Dad’s uncle would not let him come home during the week, so my poor father’s only bed was a camp stretcher, poked in behind the large industrial ovens. This resulted in my mother being alone in the dilapidated old house, trying to cope with two small children. The roof leaked so badly, that sometimes - while trying to cook dinner, she wore a hat and raincoat to keep dry. Boxes and packing cases were our only furniture. We had nothing.
The smell, the earth tremors, and the leaking roof, eventually drove my parents to move to Ngongataha. We lived in an old three storeyed building, with a shop below. My mother did dress making for the proprietor of the shop. He kindly arranged for us to have an old red sofa he was disposing of. One night some friends came to stay, one of them sleeping on the sofa. On awakening the following morning, he discovered he was covered in bites. The sofa was alive with fleas, so mum had to dowse it with flea powder.
I loved this old house. My brother and I would sneak out of bed and watch my parents on the lower level below our room - through a hole in the floor, as they sat talking at the kitchen table. We had many visitors, mostly friends we’d met on the ship coming out, so I had a lot of ‘adopted’ aunts and uncles, whom we remained friends with over the years as David and I grew up.
I think my mother was much happier living at Ngongataha - I know I was, and we were all together again, but eventually my father would get a job in Hamilton, so we moved again. I loved Hamilton, and to this day, whenever I drive through Te Rapa, it is like coming home.
On the journey between Hamilton and Rotorua, my brother sat in the back of the car, while my Uncle Ron and dad sat in the front. Dad had acquired a rifle for shooting rabbits for rabbit pies - a delicacy back then for the British. David sat in the back, pointing the rifle at a bus driver who was following. The driver was playing a game with my brother, pretending to be shot. This helped keep David amused. Later that evening, dad asked Uncle Ron if he would like to hold the gun.
“I don’t like guns,” my uncle remarked.
“Go on,” urged my father. “It’s not loaded.”
With that, he pointed the gun at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. The gun discharged - almost causing the two men to leap out of their skin. My mother went running in to find a hole in the ceiling. Dad was never allowed to forget this, and somewhere in New Zealand lives a very lucky bus driver.
My father worked in a bakery at night, and a furniture factory during the day. My mother took in dressmaking once again. David attended Whitiora primary school, while I went to a kindergarten almost opposite the school. We lived at number 32 Mill St. This is when we acquired our beautiful dog, Whisky. She used to chew things, even biting the heads off a couple of kittens our cat had given birth to. In the end, mum cried ‘enough,’ and Whisky was given away. I was devastated. I loved the puppy dearly. It was with great delight that I heard a familiar bark one day, and in came Whisky through the back door with my father. Her new owners had abandoned her, and she was found wandering at the side of the road. No-one could have been happier than I, but I’m not sure about my mother’s feelings on the matter. That dog became like a beloved family member, and she lived to about fifteen years old. I never wanted to own another dog after she died - none of the family did. We remain ‘dog-less’ to this day.
My father bought an old van, its body was made of plywood. These days it wouldn’t be permitted on the road. Many times he would have to stop the car so that David and I could clamber out of the back to try and get some air. We would go to Karapiro, or Raglan for a drive, and be overcome by fumes and smoke, but the old van gave us many happy memories, of David, Whisky and I squashed up in the back.
We befriended a family who lived on the corner of our street. Diane was the same age as I, and we quickly became friends. One evening we were invited to Diane’s birthday tea, it was her fifth birthday. The evening went well and we all enjoyed ourselves. Diane and I were listening to our parents chatting while still seated at the dinner table. She was chewing on a hair-grip - a large plastic device which opened on a hinge. It was the type one would clasp around a ponytail.
All of a sudden, Diane turned blue - she had swallowed it, and it was lodged in her throat.
“She’s choking!” my father yelled. “Grab her!”
With that, he and Diane’s father grabbed her by the ankles turning her upside down, and thumping her on the back to try and dislodge the hair-grip. It did indeed dislodge - along with her dinner. She vomited everywhere. I went into a mad panic and became hysterical. I’d never seen anything like it. I didn’t know what they were trying to do to her. I wasn’t aware she’d swallowed the thing. The only thing my young mind could focus on, was the violence these two men that I trusted, were inflicting on Diane - and the vomit that was splattered all over the floor. I remember hearing loud screaming, not realizing it was coming from me. I really thought Diane’s insides were being beaten out of her, and the men were killing her. I’d never seen vomit before.
“I want to go home, I want to go home!” I screamed.
I was traumatized.
Later that evening after my mother put me to bed, I was very disturbed. I could not get the vision out of my head. It kept re-playing in my mind, over and over again. I drifted in and out of a fitful sleep. My mother must have sat by the bed for a while, as I remember her voice trying to comfort me.
I could see hundreds of airplanes flying over me - they were bombers. I could hear the air raid siren and the drone of the engines. I saw a man in an army uniform with a red band around the sleeve, kissing a lady and myself good-bye as he went out the front door.
“I don’t want daddy to go and fight,” I cried out.
The man had fairish, sandy coloured hair, but he didn’t look anything like my father, so I was confused as to why I was calling him daddy. The lady - who was obviously my mother, looked nothing like the lady who was my real mother.
My own mother spoke, “Daddy’s not going to fight, he’s here in the other room.”
The bombers continued in my vision, dropping hundreds and hundreds of bombs all around me, I was terrified. Why couldn’t I make her understand, it was ‘another daddy,’ not this one?
From that night on, I would go into a state of hysteria if anyone was sick. The terror would return and reduce me to a blithering idiot. It haunted me all through my school years and into my adult life. I have had hypnosis, and no end of treatment, but the fear still haunts me, even though my reasoning, adult mind knows it is a silly reaction. Deep in my subconscious, is the feeling of a terrifying, violent, death. I was born after the war in 1948, so the memory I was experiencing was not from this lifetime. I was to find out more about this as I matured. I had never even thought about past lives until I was in my late twenties.
The dreams of the bombers continued for years. Sometimes I would be running for cover from the bombs, but often the bombs would turn to vomit, and I would try to avoid it by hiding under tables and chairs. I often cursed that night at Diane’s for doing this to me, but now I realize, there must have been a purpose behind it.
When I was in my late twenties, I read an article about a hypnotist who could regress people into past lives. I wrote to him with my story, and he agreed to work on me without charging a fee, as long as I was willing to have my story printed in a woman’s magazine - and be photographed. I agreed. If it was going to help me, I would give anything a try.
I regressed back in time with little effort. I was a good subject and went under hypnosis quickly. The story gradually unfolded. It appeared I had been born in 1939 - my name being Elizabeth Rose. I had been named after the two princesses, I explained - as a three year old. It was war time, and whenever there was an air raid, my mother, sister Janet and I, would take shelter in a large cupboard under the stairs. My father was obviously away somewhere else.
As the bombs began to fall near our house, my older sister became sick with fear, and was vomiting. (I started to become distressed by the smell and the close quarters we were cramped in. The hypnotist said my face changed and I looked afraid.)
I began to cry, “I don’t like it, I don’t like it!”
Our house began to shake, and as the bombs drew closer, my sister vomited all over my head. The house was hit, and a few moments later, I could see my legs poking out from the rubble. There was a huge hole where the roof had been. I seemed to be outside my body, but I couldn’t see anyone else, just these little legs protruding from what had once been the cupboard where we sheltered. Everything seemed very still and surreal. It was the year 1942. I was three years old living somewhere in London.
The hypnotist found me to be such an interesting subject I continued seeing him, trying to heal that part of my life. He regressed me back to several past lives with great ease. I became so interested in the subject, I trained and became a hypnotherapist in 1993. (I rarely use hypnosis now, having moved on in another direction.)
The memory of that time was obviously still with me when I was born back into this reality in 1948, only six years later. I have worked on myself a great deal since then, and tried to help others with their phobias, which often stem from past lives. I have my phobia a little more under control, but I still find difficulty coping with sickness, and try to avoid any situation that might make me feel threatened.
Often, if a person returns quickly, their past memory is strong, and they can bring old issues with them it would seem.
The article in the magazine was printed - with a very unflattering photograph. A local lady - a born again Christian who taught bible at my children’s school, phoned me one evening after having seen the article. She suggested that I was possessed by Satan, and wanted me to attend her church to have the devil cast out of me. She was aware that I was clairvoyant, and asked me what right I had wearing a crucifix around my neck while involved with the devil’s work. I pointed out that I believed in God and had as much right to wear it as the next person, but when my children were excluded from an Easter celebration at school because of my beliefs – that was the final straw. They were quickly taken out of bible class. I wasn’t having anyone who was that narrow-minded, thrusting their opinions on my children, who were being raised to have open minds. The teacher had the audacity to tell the other children in the class that I read tea leaves, and that my children and I didn’t believe in Jesus – she was incorrect on both matters. Living in such a small town, everyone knew me, and it wasn’t until years later, I discovered that I was referred to as the local witch. This tickled me, especially as I have never been into witchcraft, voodoo, or devil worship - talking to the dead - yes, but never witchcraft. I came up against this kind of prejudice many times, but I shrugged it off, often finding it humorous.
I was once briefly employed in the canteen of a local factory. A friend of mine ran the canteen and required some help. The factory was owned by a group of devout Christians. When they found out who I was, my friend was called into the office. When she returned, it appeared they weren’t happy having me there. They told her that I’d been mingling with the machinists, telling their fortunes as they worked. I laughed. I only ventured out into the work room with my tea trolley briefly, so God only knows when I was supposed to have done this. I couldn’t even read the future in those days, this was a skill I developed years later. Needless to say, I promptly left that job. I cannot abide narrow minds, though I realize that most of these people’s minds are locked in fear.
I have always believed in God, ever since I was a small child. I prayed everyday to become a better person, and gave thanks for all I had. On numerous occasions I had seen Jesus, but I will go into that later in the book.
As I tried to explain to the bible teacher, Jesus himself never judged anyone, so what gave her the right to judge me, especially as she had rung me while I was at home minding my own business and harming no-one, while accusing me of devil worship. I pointed out that if she were to follow his teachings more closely, she would see that he was the greatest psychic that probably ever lived. This really put her in a spin. I wished her well, thanked her for her concern about my soul, and assured her I was in good hands. She said she would pray for me, and I offered to do the same for her. I think her answer was, “By whose authority?” I hung the phone up quietly, not wanting to continue this pointless conversation.