By: Annie Larson, Medium, Reiki Master Teacher & Author
Contact to book a reading: www.MediumAnnieLarson.com
Based on actual events. Names have been changed to protect their privacy.
On a cold, gray January day, the air felt heavy with a chill that penetrated through layers of clothing. Inside my office, the dim light from the window cast a somber atmosphere. A gentleman, his voice carrying a hint of a South Indian accent, called to inquire about a therapy session. The sound of his cracked voice echoed with the weight of sorrow as he shared the devastating news - he and his wife had lost a child.
As I listened, a sense of melancholy filled the room, mingling with the scent of old books and faint traces of coffee. I could almost feel the weight of their grief in the air, like a heavy fog that enveloped everything. The image of a child, ethereal and fragile, seemed to hover beside me, his presence palpable yet intangible.
With a heavy heart, I offered my condolences, knowing that words could never fully ease the pain they were enduring. “I am so sorry for your loss,” I said, my voice filled with genuine empathy. “Unfortunately, all I can offer at the moment is to put you on our waitlist.” The sound of my pen scratching against the paper filled the silence. The only tangible evidence of their desperate need for help.
Taking a moment to compose myself, I carefully wrote the gentleman’s name, Raja Verma, and his phone number on the long list of others waiting for therapy. “OK, Mr. Verma, we’ll call you if we have any openings,” I assured him, though the words felt hollow in the face of their profound loss, and our lack of openings.
As I hung up, the faint sound of laughter reached my ears, barely audible but distinct. Standing beside me was a young male child in spirit, his presence airy. He revealed he was only nine years old when he passed away. With a heavy heart, he explained the immense sadness his parents were experiencing. It was then that he mentioned Rhonda, the owner of the therapy group, who he believed could offer solace to his grieving family. Desperation filled his voice as he implored me for help. The weight of his mother’s sorrow seeped into me, leaving me feeling anxious, reminiscent of the unease I felt when approached by spirits in the past.
Despite my apprehension, I knew we could make a difference. But I couldn’t help but think of Rhonda’s reaction. She would be furious with me for involving myself in this wayward endeavor. How would I explain this to her?
Rhonda, the therapist who had established the practice, had a petite frame that defied her powerful presence. She neatly tied her long brown hair in a ponytail, and she wore baggy pants and shirts that concealed her well-toned muscles. Warm, compassionate hazel eyes, often squinting in deep concentration as she listened to her clients, completed her kind demeanor. There was an instant connection between us when I interviewed for the position, which aimed to support her team of three clinicians. Although the pay was meager, it provided a sense of purpose and direction in my life, as my children had grown older and required less of my attention. I had contributed to the growth of the practice, which now boasted seven therapists. However, I knew deep within that I would soon leave to reconnect with my spiritual path as a medium.
Rhonda discovered my skills as a psychic and a medium after I began working there. As I encountered clients, I couldn’t stop the flood of psychic images and information. The couple who argued during marriage counseling, their energy screamed divorce, and sure enough, they ended up separating. Then there was the female client who carried the weight of physical altercations with her spouse, leaving a lingering aura of her awful husband that I had to cleanse with sage after each session. And let’s not forget the zealot religious mom who brought her daughter for therapy, desperately hoping counseling would “fix” her desire to transition to a male.
But one day, after a few months of working with the team of therapists, an urgent call disrupted the routine. The mother of a regular teenage client informed me that her son’s best friend had tragically passed away and desperately requested an immediate appointment. I quickly relayed the news to his regular therapist, Kathy, who swiftly made plans to see Cliff at three o’clock.
Just before three, Cliff entered the office suite, his footsteps echoing through the hallway. As he walked past the front desk, a teenage boy in spirit followed closely behind him, unaware of his own demise. A surge of emotions overwhelmed me, and tears welled up in my eyes. It saddened me to witness this young soul oblivious to his own fate.
I approached the spirit companion, mentally in my mind, gently informing him he was no longer on this earth. Instructing him to say his goodbyes and depart, I warned against overstaying his welcome. The spirit shared his name and the grim details of his sudden passing. Confused and lost, he clung to his friend, following him throughout the day.
When Cliff left his appointment, Kathy saw him out, her eyes filled with sorrow. I could feel the weight of her gaze as she turned to me, her mournful expression lingering in the air. “His deceased friend actually walked into the office with him,” I revealed, my words carrying a tinge of disbelief. Kathy’s blue eyes widened, capturing the light in the room. With a nonchalant air, she casually remarked in her faded southern accent, “Well, what did he look like? I have a picture of him.”
Kathy, always composed and elegant, specialized in providing faith-based counseling. Her modest attire comprised of woven skirts that gracefully fell just below her knees, paired with light cotton blouses concealing her middle-aged figure. To disguise the signs of early graying, she meticulously dyed her hair a light brown shade, styling it in an under-curl fashion that framed her neckline. She flawlessly applied her makeup, leaving me wondering if I would ever glimpse her natural lips beneath the rose-colored lipstick.
Initially, I hesitated to warm up to Kathy, assuming she would judge me for not sharing her religious beliefs. But as time passed, I realized my preconceptions were unfounded. Deep down, I sensed that she, like me, possessed a free-spirited nature. Amongst the “born-again” individuals I had encountered, Kathy stood out for her openness to alternative beliefs. Through our deep philosophical discussions, we discovered an unexpected kinship. She trusted me with secrets she had never revealed to anyone else, and I found consolation in her acceptance. As Rhonda’s session concluded, the two therapists gathered at the front desk. Kathy explained to Rhonda what had transpired with her client, recounting my encounter with the apparition of his deceased friend.
“Oh, I did more than see him,” I exclaimed, a trace of excitement in my voice. “He walked past me. Lost. He informed me he was named after an apostle. I believe his name is James or Andrew,” I said, my words hanging in the air. Kathy, perplexed, looked at Rhonda with silent, questioning eyes, seeking to understand.
“On second thought, I know he’s named James,” I continued, a spark of realization flickering in my eyes. “Just like the name of Jesus’s brother.” Both clinicians leaned in, their focus solely on me. Kathy, the curiosity clear on her face, demanded, “What did he look like?”
Closing my eyes, I conjured the image of the boy in my mind, as vivid as a picture. “He had sandy colored hair, carefully parted on the side,” I described, my voice mingled with nostalgia. “His fair complexion adorned with freckles, scattered across his nose and cheeks. He had the physique of a lanky teenager on the thinner side. And his shoes resembled well worn cleats. His socks bore the marks of a sports uniform with two red lines at the top. His pants were a striking bright yellow, accentuated by a bold green stripe down the sides. His shirt, a pale yellow reminiscent of a manila file folder, completed his ensemble.”
Kathy pursed her lips together, her expression a mix of surprise and confirmation. She affirmed my description of the deceased boy, James, and verified his name. However, she couldn’t provide definitive confirmation about the uniform. “James told me he fell asleep in his uniform,” I added, a hint of sadness creeping into my voice. “And then, I felt an intense pressure on the right side of my head, as if the weight of the world was bearing down on me. Darkness, the color of blood, engulfed my senses. And with that, I was gone.”
The local newspapers only shared scant details about James. They mentioned a “catastrophic medical event” that befell him, rendering him unresponsive when his mother desperately tried to wake him. He had taken part in varsity baseball tryouts earlier that day and had successfully earned a spot on the team as a sophomore.
Later, we would learn from a friend of Kathy’s, who used to umpire local baseball games, that James was a baseball prodigy. He had made the varsity team as a freshman. The former umpire recounted hearing about James being found deceased in his baseball practice uniform and confirmed vital details - yellow and green pants with a pale-yellow t-shirt. Rhonda and Kathy were overwhelmed by the information I shared with them from James.
The weight of it all hung heavy in the air, like a thick fog of disbelief and sorrow. Rhonda, searching for solace, reached out to her pastor and began attending church again. There she found some semblance of peace. She sought to make sense of the inexplicable through her beliefs. Meanwhile, Kathy, although less shaken, gradually revealed her own connections to the spirit world and the strange occurrences that had plagued her haunted house. As I shared my abilities and experiences, a sense of acceptance enveloped me, like a warm embrace. The safe work environment provided a comforting backdrop for open expression. However, my sharing did not last long.
Rhonda advised me to cease divulging the information I received from clients. She likened it to invading their privacy, as if she was peering into their social media. “Let them share what’s happening in their lives,” she emphasized. Despite the clinicians’ strict adherence to HIPAA and professional ethics, I knew that my shared experiences had resonated deeply with them. I respected Rhonda’s position and silently kept my encounters to myself, like a secret locked away.
Because of my mysterious encounter with James, dealing with the young boy’s spirit became a predicament. How would I confess to Rhonda that I had claimed her last reserved time for emergencies and planning at the request of a spirit who knew her by name? Rhonda was a well-known therapist with vast experience and a doctorate in counseling.
I picked up the phone and dialed Mr. Verma’s number from the waitlist. The sound of the dial tone echoed in my ears as I nervously waited for him to answer. Finally, his voice filled the line, “Hello Raja, this is Annie from the therapist's office. I’m going to squeeze you in on Monday at one thirty. Come fifteen minutes early for your first session to fill out paperwork. Whatever you do, don’t be late.”
As I hung up the phone, a sense of unease washed over me. The little boy's spirit, visible in my mind’s eye, stood beside me with a mischievous smile on his face. “Tell your dad not to be late,” I whispered softly.
I struggled to find the right words as I sat across from Rhonda, trying to explain why I had taken her last time slot. “I don’t know!” my voice filled with desperation. “The dad sounded so sad. And I was emotional. Before I knew it, I put him on your schedule.”
But there was so much more I couldn’t share with Rhonda. I couldn’t tell her that the dad’s deceased son was standing right next to me as I spoke to her. The room felt heavy with the presence of the spirit, and I knew Rhonda would believe me if I told her. But I had sworn to keep these encounters a secret.
To reassure Rhonda, I made a solemn promise. “You have another client that is moving soon, and I promise I won’t fill that slot,” I said earnestly. I crossed my heart with my right hand, feeling the weight of the oath. With two fingers up, I held my arm akimbo, as if taking a sacred pledge. “I promise.”
Raja and his wife, Lakshmi, along with their three-year-old son, Chris, arrived at the first session 20 minutes late. As they entered, they could see the frustration on my face as I reminded him, “Raja, I told you to be on time! Take the input documents with you and fill them out later. Dr. Borden is waiting for you.” Holding the intake paperwork, I led them to Rhonda’s spacious office at the back.
“Dr. Borden, your 1:30 appointment has arrived,” I informed her. Sensing the need for privacy, she requested I take Chris to the playroom. I switched on the lights in the playroom behind the front desk and guided Chris inside. “Here you go, sport,” I said, trying to make him comfortable. “Let’s see. There are puzzles and action figures and zoo animals. What do you like to play with?” Struggling to remember what my son enjoyed at three years old, I set up fabric bins from child-size bookcases on the floor for Chris to explore. With the door left ajar, I returned to the front desk.
Chris played, and his laughter filled the air. It amazed me how joyfully he immersed himself in play. Soon, his laughter intertwined with the laughter of another child, each with their own unique tone. Curiosity piqued, I left the desk and turned the corner toward the playroom. Chris looked up, his smile widening as he continued to laugh. The room was a delightful chaos, with toys scattered across the floor from every bin.
“I gotta go potty,” Chris suddenly announced. Letting out a quiet sigh, I muttered to myself, “I don’t get paid enough for this,” as I guided him towards the nearby restroom.
Regular sessions began with Rhonda. Chris, with his big brown eyes that sparkled like warm chocolate, and his sweet baby face, always arrived late. The playroom, a vibrant haven, kept Chris and his big brother’s spirit entertained. In a later session, I discovered his name was Nitin.
As October approached, a change was apparent in Lakshmi, who rarely spoke to me. Her belly, round, and protruding suggested she was about eight months pregnant. Chris stopped attending sessions in the spring, and Nitin’s spirit seemed to fade away. I couldn’t help but smile at Lakshmi’s blossoming belly when they checked in. Rhonda warmly greeted them, leading them to her office. This time, as they walked away, I sensed an overjoyed Nitin. “I’m 10,” he exclaimed.
After the session, Lakshmi excused herself to use the restroom. Raja followed her, hesitating at the door. Turning to me, he expressed his gratitude, “Today was our last session. Thank you for all your help throughout this challenging year. Our family went through a difficult time because our son passed away.” My stomach fluttered, a swirl of emotions wanting to burst out. I desperately wanted to scream, “Yes! He played in the playroom with Chris. He’s been happy and told me he’s ten.” Raja gathered his composure, tears welling up in his big brown eyes that mirrored the adult version of Chris’s captivating gaze.
“I am deeply sorry for your loss,” I whispered, my voice filled with sorrow. The room was hushed, the air heavy with grief. Raja shifted uneasily, his throat clearing before he spoke. His eyes were downcast, his voice trembling as he recounted the tragic events that had unfolded on Nitin’s 9th birthday. The scent of sadness lingered in the room, mingling with the faint aroma of freshly brewed tea.
Lakshmi appeared in the doorway, her touch gentle as she guided Raja away, offering him comfort. Raja’s grateful words echoed softly; his gaze filled with love as he looked at his wife. “May blessings be upon you,” he said, his voice filled with a mix of pain and acceptance. I nodded, my head bowing in acknowledgment, expressing my gratitude. As Nitin’s parents prepared to leave, a bittersweet smile graced his face, and he departed with them.
Tears streamed down my cheeks, each drop carrying a heartfelt message. “Happy Birthday, Nitin,” I murmured, my voice barely audible, as I watched them go.