Telepathy, as coined by the French psychical researcher Fredric W. H. Myers, is the innate psychic phenomena by which communication occurs between minds of humans, without the use of the usual sensory channels of communication such as speech or body language. It is the direct transference of thoughts, ideas, feelings, sensations, and mental images from one individual (the sender) to another (the receiver). Telepathy is considered a form of extra-sensory perception (ESP) and is often connected to other various paranormal phenomena such as precognition, clairvoyance, and empathy, but it is often difficult to determine whether information is communicated through telepathy or clairvoyance as they are the same psychic function manifested in different ways.
Telepathy is about energetic frequency and the ability to recognize and align with another person’s frequency. Although this is an innate ability all human beings possess it is not usually developed in everyone because as humans were created for life in the physical realm or the third dimension where we attain information through physical senses such as: touch, taste, smell, sight, and sound then is translated by the mind. Though the human mind is a physical organ it is more than that, it is an evolved physical matrix for a psychic entity of electrical and quantum impulses. This entity has the innate ability to receive and influence the temporary changes in the energy from other minds, therefore it is understood that telepathy is a natural function of the mind as it is energetically or psychically connected to all other minds which transcends our perceived concepts of time and space.
My parents left for their weeklong vacation on a Friday morning while I was sitting at the desk in the library listening to Mr. Stokes give me a lecture on the historical events that took place in Massachusetts in 1692. They created such a commotion in the foyer with their Louis Vuitton luggage that Mr. Stokes was forced to stop talking. He and I watched them through the opened library door. My Dad casually waved at us as he slung the strap of the duffle bag over his shoulder and with his other hand grabbed the handle of the biggest upright, rolling it behind him as he walked towards the front door. Mother blew me a kiss as she clutched her cosmetic satchel and the smaller upright. I returned their farewells, noting to myself their annoyance and aggravation only slightly hidden beneath the phony smiles they presented to us. A trip to the Bahamas was going to “fix” this? I shook my head in complete disbelief. My parents were clearly in serious denial about the state of their relationship.
With the sound of the front door closing, I redirected my attention back to my tutor who had removed his glasses and was carefully slipping them into the front pocket of his light blue button up shirt. The middle finger of his left hand had instinctively found the scar on his forehead and began massaging it. I was curious about his scar the moment I first saw it, but refrained from questioning him, but now, as I sat there gazing at him, waiting for him to continue with his lecture I pondered the circumstances surrounding it’s appearance on his face. How long ago had he acquired the injury? Did it still caused him pain?
“Perhaps someday I will share that story with you,” he smirked, as he sat on the edge of the desk. His hand now joined his other as they clasped and rested on his right thigh.
How did he know I was contemplating his scar? Was I so blatantly staring at it or did he attain the knowledge of my inquiry by some other means? These silent questions must have been readable in my expression because he chuckled with a slight nod.
“As entertaining as that story is, I must redirect your inquest back to the historical events of 1692. I find that it is pertinent to share some information with you that not only pertains to the events I’ve been discussing, but to your own family as well, specifically your father’s ancestors,” he explained in a tone that I had not heard prior from him. It was solemn with a hint of … was that fear?
My ancestors? This was wonderful! This was the type of information I was craving ever since I had purchased the books from that pagan shop in Bridgeboro, but how much information would he be able to share with me since he was not of my family bloodline? Was this going to be accurate material or pure speculation and conjecture? How had he attained this information? Did he read it in books? If so, what ones? Were there even any books about my family? How had he gathered this information?
He cleared his throat before he began. “You must understand that some of what I am going to tell you may be difficult for you to believe, but I am asking you to listen with an open mind and take time to contemplate even the slightest possibility that there is some truth to the stories. These are stories and rumor; nothing can be verified as there are no factual records to consult when it comes to your family history.”
I nodded. His words were becoming more intriguing as he spoke. To be honest with you though, I couldn’t have imagined anything that he might have told me that would have been difficult for me to believe. I had personally experienced the unbelievable for most of my childhood and because of those peculiar events that no one else dared believed to be true, I was ultimately diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and earned myself prescriptions for Cymbalta and Klonopin. I was excited with the consideration that he had stories of events that were more fantastical than what I had experienced firsthand.
“Your father’s family has a historical reputation that many people are still, to this very day, greatly influenced by,” Mr. Stokes explained. He pursed his lips and tilted his head, as he continued, “And not necessarily influenced in a positive or productive way.”
“Really?” I was impressed. “Dad always tells me that our family bloodline carries clout,” I said, recalling my father’s claim, one which I dismissed because it really had no bearing on my teenaged life.
Mr. Stokes agreed. “It does, but it holds much more than influence, Angie.” He paused as he leaned closer to me. He seemed to be studying my response or lack thereof, staring me directly in the eye, searching for something, perhaps some silent understanding of the words he left unspoken. I held his gaze without blinking, determined not to give away any hint of my own unusual experiences until after he had finished with what he had to share with me. He pulled himself back, adjusting his posture so that he was straight once more as he continued, “There were strange events that transpired in Salem Village during the years 1691 to 1697, many of which were not recorded in court documents because they were not submitted as evidence during the trails, however they were written about in the rare personal diaries of those who were educated at that time. Other accounts were passed on orally from generation to generation as cautionary tales about the Williams family.”
“Are you suggesting that my father is right? That our family is descended from the Williams of Salem?”
“I’m not just suggesting it, Angie. I am confirming it.”
Huh. I assumed that my father was just boasting, trying to impress the important people of the community and state that he and Mother invited to the parties that they hosted around the holidays. I never considered that his words could be truth, but I was beginning to think that this information would be useful to me or at least would illuminate some things about who my ancestors were and what they and Syn may want from me.
“Why did the people feel it was necessary to warn others about my family? I don’t understand,” I paused for a moment trying to comprehend the motives behind the actions. Was it possible that my ancestor’s powers were truly that intimating? “Did it have anything to do with what was going on with the witch trails or was there something else going on at that time in the village?”
“They believed that it was Abigail Williams who caused the unpleasant events and circumstances that befell Salem, that it wasn’t the people she accused that were witches,” he emphatically explained. “It was her. She was the problem. She was the one that bewitched herself, her cousin, Betty Parris, Ann Putnam, Mary Walcott, Mercy Lewis, and the other afflicted girls; that she was the cause for the failing crops, the stillbirths and conjured the spirits. The families of the condemned were justifiably concerned of outright accusing her in fear of the retribution she would bring upon them. You must understand that they witnessed their own kin being imprisoned, tortured, and executed all due to the simple point of her index finger in their direction.”
I was in awe. I had never once considered that it was the infamous Abigail Williams that was my direct ancestor from Salem. I had assumed that the women of my bloodline that spoke to me from the darkness and verified the claims that I, along with the other females of my family, who had acknowledged and accepted their birthright as human agents of Syn were humble, unassuming pagan folk who had been the falsely accused by the Puritans. Oh, I had visited Salem once when I was younger. Our elementary school class had gone on a field trip and I recalled thinking that it was amusing that Abigail had the same surname as I did, but then Williams is not an uncommon name in New England; I had met other students with the same last name who were not of my family. This connection with Abigail, such a pivotal individual in the historical events of Salem, Massachusetts, well, this was a significant revelation.
“Was it witchcraft?”
Mr. Stokes frowned and shook his head with a shrug. “The accounts recorded in the diaries and orally passed down insist it was; that Abigail was an authentic witch who had made a blood pact with The Devil in order to gain extraordinary powers, but historical essays deny such a claim and instead portray her as a simple repressed young girl who suffered from child abuse, epilepsy, mental illness or a disease brought on by eating fungus infected rye.”
I sat in silence for a moment, overwhelmed with the amount of information Mr. Stokes had shared with me and what implications it had. I felt kindred with Abigail Williams that I hadn’t before and hadn’t felt with anyone else including my family in my life until that very moment. I wanted to know more about her. I needed to know more, but would Mr. Stokes be able to provide me with anything more?
“The diaries, do you have them?”
“I do not,” he deliberately stood from his perch on the desk and walked to the bay windows gazing out at Mother’s garden.
I was profoundly disappointed. “Oh, well that just sucks.”
“But,” Mr. Stokes continued with his back towards me. “I know the woman who does.”
Instead of feeling elation with the prospect of reading the diaries for myself, I was earnestly annoyed with my tutor. Was he intentionally baiting me? What was his deal? Was he getting off on taunting me like this with the diaries? Any other day I would have enjoyed this verbal parlay, but not today. The information he had just shared with me was momentous and the accounts in those diaries were far too significant to banter about. I stared intently at his back, feeling my annoyance shift into anger. I felt my blood pumping within my heart and flowing through the veins and arteries in my body, becoming imbued with the melody of my frustration and anger. Once he turned around my gaze would fix upon his, allowing the malicious fascination which had reached a crescendo seep into his soul.
Mr. Stokes slowly turned from the windows to face me; his expression held only considerable remorse. He had bowed his head slightly as not to look me in the eyes as he spoke, “Forgive me, Angie. I apologize. I shouldn’t have baited you with the diaries. I have no hidden agenda, no ulterior motive, and I don’t find any sort of pleasure in taunting you with such significant information. You are absolutely correct; the information I just shared with you is momentous and the accounts in those diaries are far too significant to banter about.”
What the fuck?!