![]() “Alex is a bit of a bitch, isn’t she?” I once heard Charlesh say of me as I crouched in the hallway, my ear pressed up against the door. In the evenings, when my dad was still at work, she’d tuck herself away in the lounge with a glass of wine and re-listen to Charlesh’s recordings. He’d then close his eyes, twitching and sweating, until Charlesh arrived, ready to provide sage advice. I imagined draping red velvet curtains and a plump chaise lounge nestled over a Persian rug. Even as a child, it struck me as unusually fortuitous that, if one had to share their body with another, it happened to be a highly monetisable, 6,000-year-old Mesopotamian psychic, and not an 80-year-old retired panelbeater from Lower Hutt.Īccording to Mum, Brent would greet her at the door and usher her into his nicely furnished sitting room. A painted portrait of Charlesh in his original form depicts him as a more tanned and windswept Rasputin. According to his website, Charlesh actually lived during the era of the Sumerian people, some time between 41 BCE, but is now channeled by a man called Brent and available to give personal readings out of a Mt Victoria villa. In fact, despite being both a trained lawyer and an atheist, she’d developed somewhat of a penchant for psychics over the years.įor a while she became a semi-regular patron of the spiritual guide, Charlesh. It wasn’t my mum’s first encounter with the supernatural. But having inherited our dad’s skepticism, our mum was the only one who dared to acknowledge the possibility of a ghost out loud. It’d been a school holiday afternoon and my siblings and I had heard it, too. Both our neighbours had teenage children and there was no one obviously outside on the street. ![]() She’d heard the voice of a small child calling out again and again for his mother. ![]() When I was 11, my mum became convinced we had a ghost in our house. The Sunday Essay is made possible thanks to the support of Creative New Zealand. Sharing a home with spirits isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
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