Paranormal Stories of a Medium: The Man with No Face
The Man with No Face.
Hi Everyone, my name is Olivia! Liv for short, and I am a psychic medium. I grew up as normally as I could, I think, except for when I began seeing dead people.
I remember it as vividly as the green leaves that sunny, summer afternoon when I was 8. I was at my dad’s house for the weekend, as my parent’s shared custody dictated, and I was playing outside by my favorite tree. My dad had trained me to know when lunchtime was using chicken nuggets and fruit-cups, so I had abandoned my game and turned to run inside.
“My eight-year-old eyes could distinguish that this man should have had a definable face. But he didn’t.”
In the usually vacant open stretch grass between me and some delicious nuggets, stood a man. He stood with his hands quietly by his sides. His ordinary blue jeans meeting his black t-shirt. He had fair skins and black, slicked-back hair. Thinking back on it now, he seems like the person who may have had a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the short sleeve of his tee. His mundane appearance ended with his face. He may have had brown eyes, a defined nose, or even a soft smile, but instead there was simply nothing. His profile resembled that of a simple news-printed letter, smudged as if the reader had wetted their finger a tad too much when turning the page. Just as you could perhaps make out that the newsprint letter had once been a vowel, my eight-year-old eyes could distinguish that this man should have had a definable face. But he didn’t.
Fight or Flight?
I remember stopping dead in my tracks, double taking the man again, most specifically, his face. When my eyes didn’t seem to deceive me once more, that’s when I felt my heart stop. My breathing got tight, or stopped all together, that I don’t quite recall actually, but I do remember booking it. I ran as fast as my little legs could go in the widest little U-turn my feet could take me. All the way around the man with no face.
Sweet, Sweet, Nuggets;
and A Frazzled Father?
The warm aroma of chicken nuggets hit my face as I hurtled though my dad’s front door, the sweet sight of a juice pouch sitting on the table. My dad turned to face me with only mild curiosity on his face as he stood suspending a hot tray of nuggets in his oven mitt clad hands. I quickly searched his face for any signs of smudging. Then I told him about the man.
Once I got to the part about the man not having a face, he seemed extremely off put, as any sane individual would be. He sat me down for lunch and left, probably to take a look around outside as I sat munching on my food. He later returned saying that he didn’t see anyone outside. Pacified by my father’s protection and some darn good chicken nuggets, I stuck to peering around corners and trying to keep my eyes open extra wide for the rest of the weekend. All was almost forgotten until I returned home to my mom’s.
“All was almost forgotten until I returned home to my mom’s.”
A Mother’s Intuition.
Sunday evening rolled around and with it my return to my mother’s house. After my father had dropped me off, my mother went into her routine of asking me about my weekend. The three day’s events rolled off my tongue uninterrupted until I got the man with no face. I tried to explain to her how my dad had said it was just my imagination, but she seemed a bit more weary than him. But she eventually let it go. It wasn’t until I had returned to my father’s for yet another weekend visitation that the man with no face returned.
I remember walking into my dad’s house for yet another lunch of chicken nuggets and fruit cups when I noticed someone standing on the landing of the stairs. Looking to see who it was, my eyes met a face with no features. As soon as I saw him again, he was gone. My heart was beating a mile a minute. But he was gone, nowhere to be seen. I felt I couldn’t tell my dad again that I’d just seen the man but now in his house if he wasn’t physically there. So, trying to push down my heart in my throat I ate my lunch of champions and went back outside to play.
“My eyes met a face with no features.”
The Man Returns.
When I returned back to my mother’s house on Sunday evening, I left out seeing the man with no face again, I didn’t want her to think I was lying.
That week, I walked home from elementary school, into my house and shut, and locked the door behind me, as usual. As I walked through my home, I felt like someone was there. When I walked past the staircase, I felt like someone was watching me. I turned and looked up to the top of the staircase only to be met by the man with no face. Black slicked back hair, neat black tee, and blue jeans, but still no face. I felt my chest hit my shoes and I booked it to the phone. I grabbed my dog and hid in the living room.
I called my mom and told her that the man was standing on the staircase at our house this time. She seemed to collect her thoughts and told me to stay where I was and to tell the man to “leave me alone” and “you’re not welcome here because you scare me”. And so, I did. I felt my nerves begin to wind tighter and I almost began to cry as I told my mom I wished the man would go away.
She said, “put me on speaker phone” and I did. I hit the big button with the icon of a telephone with three curved lined coming off of it and she began to scold the man. Soon I began to feel my fright ebb away. She asked, “Is he gone?” In that stern mom tone and though I refused to look again, I did feel better. My feeling of not being alone had not left, but the overwhelming and intrusive feeling I had felt minutes prior was gone.
Mediumship; It Runs in The Lack of Family.
That evening my mom sat down with me and explained that she used to see people that other people couldn’t see either and it began around the same age I was.
My mother is adopted and doesn’t know who her biological parents are, so when she would share her spooky encounters with her religious immigrant grandmother, she would hand my young mother her rosary beads and tell her to “hush up” and “don’t say such things to other people.”
My mother shared a few of her medium stories with me and assured me that I was not just seeing things, but that I must share the gifts she inherited. It doesn’t seem that we will ever know from who we may have gotten our gifts from, but it seems that our mediumship must be genetic.
If you’ve enjoyed this story, please tune in for each month’s new issue where I will cover various metaphysical topics and continue to share my stories of mediumship. Make sure to say hi on social media and subscribe for weekly content where my best friend Em and I, become your sidekicks to everything Metaphysical.
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