Intentional Spirits: Voices from the Titanic

Copyright © 2013 Bonnie Meroth and Debbie Raymond-Pinet.

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ISBN: 978-1-4525-8402-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-8403-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013918194

Balboa Press rev. date: 10/17/2013

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1:       The New Project

Chapter 2:       Not Everyone Is Resting Peacefully

Chapter 3:       The Young Man In Black Boots

Chapter 4:       The Young Man In Black Boots Is Italian

Chapter 5:       The Debonair Man

Chapter 6:       The Mother And Daughter

Chapter 7:       The Mature Couple

Chapter 8:       The Mother And Son

Chapter 9:       The Sad German Man

Chapter 10:       The Man With The Shiny Shoes

Chapter 11:       The Family Of Four

Chapter 12:       Children Of The Titanic

Chapter 13:       The Young Girl

Chapter 14:       The Young Man In The Black Boots Again

Epilogue

Afterword

About The Authors

To the Living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe the truth.

Voltaire

INTRODUCTION

I have never ceased to experience the wonder when I open my intuitive room to the Other Side. Even though I can not fully comprehend what I see, hear and smell in witnessing the existence of life in the unknown, I see those who have died and I faithfully receive what is being brought to me. Those who wait patiently to share their stories must also faithfully accept the same—what I can give to them.

My verbatim visions from the victims of the Titanic are printed in this book in Bookman style bold font. We clarified their stories with modern vernacular to avoid misinterpretation or conjecture about their actual messages then printed the transposed texts in italics to differentiate each the original and the clarified version.

As these spirits of the Titanic accepted my invitation to come and speak, I shared their stories with them, listening to how the victims regretfully drowned and how they now live on from a sunken wreck in the ocean depths.

It is a journey only for those who wish to come along.

Debbie Raymond

PROLOGUE

T he bottom of the bathtub blurred and she realized it was filling with water. Knowing the drain was not plugged, she watched as the water level rose higher and higher. Nearly a foot deep, the surface changed to a smooth wooden floor. Still kneeling, she saw that her tub was completely gone and she was scrubbing what had become the wooden planks of a wide deck. Shiny black high boots stood in front of her. Laced tightly to their tops, they met neatly pressed dark navy britches. Her eyes followed the pants up to the ashen face of a young man.

Cold penetrated her bones. Drips from his loose soaked clothes hit her, biting in as harshly as the air that had changed to briny and frigid in the warmth of the bathroom. Above her, an ice blue sky replaced the white ceiling and she knew she was in another place. Her contemporary surroundings were gone, and she with them.

She now kneeled on a huge ship—no, an ocean liner she corrected herself—in the middle of the ocean. Dead silence stood between her and the male form. As she stared at him, she realized he had the sunken eyes of someone who had not slept in a hundred years. His flesh held a bluish tinge and his purple lips did not move. Leaning from her knees onto the back of her calves, she looked around. A restless crowd of people milled on the deck and surrounded her in a cacophony of voices speaking to each other, but not to her. They did not realize she was there.

Skirt hems brushed across the top of her thighs. She looked up at the aloof faces under huge hats of the women in Edwardian dress. Obviously, they were of high society and their snobbery came through as clear as a bell. The tragic young man alone, who was evidently not of their social station, was showing her a memory from his time on earth. Only he was sharing these moments from long ago, as was the way with spirits.

CHAPTER 1

THE NEW PROJECT

"Not everyone is at peace . . . ."

T he whisper woke me from a deep sleep.

Rolling toward the nightstand, I looked at the softly lit digital face of my trusty 30-year-old old radio alarm clock that showed 3:00 a.m.

Bewitching hour, so it was said, a time when the spirits came out for some reason or another. I must have been deep in a dream. Well, not anymore. I was wide awake with just enough sleep so I could not fall back into it with ease, but not enough to jump out of bed ready for the day either. I hated when then happened.

Sharing its light through the window, the moon was hanging full enough to define the items on top of the nightstand. Lying on my left side, I freed my arm from the stack of blankets under the feather puff and groped for the right button to turn on the radio before settling onto my back. Not remembering everything I dreamed, that haunting voice from my sleep echoed in my head as the volume dial turned to a louder tone. Forgetting what I dreamt was not unusual. Sometimes I remembered, sometimes not. Sometimes I could not remember why I walked into another room. I hated when that happened, too.

The auto tune on the radio was set to a favorite overnight FM talk show. This night, the subject matter was ghosts. Of course, it was. It was just after 3:00 a.m.

Not all dead people rest peacefully.

Seriously.

That got my attention and I knew it did not come from a dream. It came from the radio as a statement from a psychic medium guest of the program. All remote thoughts of going back to sleep were gone. For the next two hours, my mind was engrossed listening to callers as they asked questions that elicited answers they mostly wanted to hear. Some responses brought joy, some pain and tears, but all seemed to bring closure of some sort and it was interesting to hear how many people needed to know that loved ones rested in peace and even more fascinating to hear about those who did not rest in peace.

I was easily relating to all this because my last few months of working with a psychic medium writing her memoir tuned me into the paranormal. The Other Side was becoming a normal daily thing for me to deal with, as normal as it could be. This psychic was always surrounded by spirits and easily communicated with them. In the beginning, it seemed almost a let’s pretend thing, especially when she said they were in the room with us. It was definitely not pretend. When I facetiously agreed to be her ghost writer, the pun became the provenance of a whole new very real other world.

Ironically, Debbie would be at my house in a few hours to discuss a new project and she was going to love hearing my story about the talk show. Living in the world of the paranormal, she could more than relate and refreshingly, the guest, callers and host on this program were all on the same level of believing that there was another dimension out there somewhere called the Other Side. Too often, there were rude skeptics. Well, they would know enough someday when their time came, I thought while throwing off the blankets and king-sized puff ready to start the day.

Four hours later, with a five-mile walk, a bit of gardening, a couple of loads of laundry, bookkeeping, vacuuming and morning ablutions behind me, I scrunched my damp hair trying to organize blonde short curls that would never be tamed. By mid-morning, it was already near hot and humid—much too soon for early spring—and my hair would have its way. Debating whether or not to turn on the air conditioning and deciding against it, I headed for the kitchen in my bare feet, nicely satisfied that the wait was over for warmer floors after a long freezing New England winter.

After washing my hands and donning a favorite white and blue checked apron, I pulled healthy salad ingredients from the refrigerator for the very early lunch we preferred over breakfast food. Automatically and habitually computing nutrients while pulling hulled raw pumpkin seeds from the pantry to join the produce and all the while pleased they were on the second shelf where they were supposed to be, I felt that spending time looking for things was a waste of precious moments of life. Ten minutes used up on a misplaced item could never be lived over. Everything belonged in a place of easy access, even pumpkin seeds.

Breaking apart leaves of lettuce and musing about the good news of sales from our recently published book, I reminisced about what the past year had brought. It had brought me Debbie and a long contemplative journey learning about what happens when one reaches the Other Side. Personal experiences with clairvoyants who could see things past, present and future was not new to me, but this was my first experience with a medium, people on this earth who not only can see ghosts, but who can communicate with them. Debbie was both psychic and medium and even more. Witnessing all the paranormal stuff over the months had become almost as matter-of-fact to me as it was to her.

Almost.

At times, when we were working together in the same room or on the telephone, apparitions came to her with messages and at times, ghosts would pop in to visit, walking in or floating in or however they perambulated. Only she could see them, of course. For Debbie, it was matter-of-fact and a way of life. At the beginning, the concept was definitely surreal and incredulous. Knowing visible spirits were around her was still a difficult concept for me to grasp if I really thought about it, but it was now a way of life for me, too. Being with Debbie and her spirits became quite nonchalant and very accepting with the fact that she saw the ghosts and I did not.

Glancing up, I gazed out the big window over the kitchen sink and thought it was