From an occult perspective our ancestors pass on to us more than just our physical characteristics. Each human being inherits the essence of their blood relatives, which is a collection of the ancestors’ own life experiences. When considered, the occultist can better understand and explain the natural talents an individual would appear to be born with or predisposed towards. In conjunction with the soul’s memory of the lives it has lived, this genetic factor is a vital part of the retaining and transmitting process that the consciousness undergoes through reincarnation.
Reincarnation is a blending of the memories of previous life experiences that the soul has retained along with the genetic imprints of experiences carried within the DNA of a human being. The soul chooses the next vessel or human body to integrate with by accepting birth through a specific set of parents whether or not these individuals are of an ancestral lineage that the soul has already experienced. If the chosen parents are not of the same ancestral lineage, the soul will access the genetic memory held within the DNA of the bloodline to obtain the ancestral information and apply it to the current life experience.
We sat on my bed facing each other as I spoke. I began slowly describing the things I discovered about the voices I heard since childhood; who and what they were and how they enabled me to manipulate the vibrational energy. Though Daniel supported me all those years ago I knew he was skeptical about the reality of them and I wondered as I watched his facial expressions shift if he still held onto those doubts.
I shared the narrative of how Aunt Rachel had been trapped in a vortex by The Ancestors and the events that led to her freedom. From the back of my closet I retrieved the sphere I had purchased from the occult shop in Bridgeboro and handed the wooden box that housed it to my brother, believing it to be tangible proof that what I had said was true and not just some fantasy I had created in my mind. He opened the container and examined the iridescent sphere with both of his hands while I described the ordeal it had been for me to free our aunt.
I could see that he was considering my words and I knew he underestimated me and had being doing so since we were children. He was probably thinking that my claims were too fantastical and even beyond what I claimed I was able to achieve and perhaps he was torn between wanting to support me and enabling what he believed to be my delusions. I knew that as he grew older he became embarrassed about my behavior and it was possible that he still held onto the feelings of shame that I am certain I had brought upon him, but perhaps now he could understand why I acted as I did and be the support I desired from someone in my own family. It frightened me to think that he had the power to send me to the hospital, the place where I endured painful torture and humiliation, but I knew I had already shared too much information with him even if I had any inclination to recant.
“We’re descendants of Abigail Williams, direct bloodline relatives and it’s because of this that I can do things that other people can’t.” I hesitated for just a moment before continuing, “I can manipulate the vibration of sound in a way that allows me to do these amazing things.”
Daniel said nothing. He listened without interrupting.
I gripped onto the hope that he believed my words. I wanted him to believe me. I needed him to, and I hated myself for needing someone like I did in that moment. I felt more lost than I had in a long time, even though Mr. Stokes was proving to be an ally, it just wasn’t the same as having family on my side.
“I use this power to repay the family debt owed to the goddess that protected us during the Witch Trails in Salem,” I explained. “I act as her Valkyrie here on Earth.”
Daniel replaced the sphere in its box and set it on my bed beside him as I opened the draw in my nightstand and tossed my MP3 player to him. My brother caught it in his hand.
“Manipulating the vibration of music allows me to shift the energetic frequency of a person,” I said as I reclaimed my spot on the bed next to him. “That MP3 player holds more than music.”
He didn’t respond and I was convinced that he was thinking that I was experiencing a psychotic break and that at any second he was going to stand up and immediately go downstairs to speak with our parents about my claims. Surprisingly he remained where he was sitting on my bed.
“I don’t really understand how this holds more than music,” he said, turning the MP3 over in his hands a few times before handing it back to me. “But what you describe about possessing skills you were never taught, well, that sounds like the definition of Genetic Memory to me.”
I didn’t understand what he was saying. Did he believe me? Was it possible?
“What do you mean?”
“Having a skill, knowing how to do something without ever being taught how to do it, that’s called Genetic Memory. It’s a memory that’s been passed to you from your grandparents or other blood relatives, even as far back as your ancestors, it’s knowledge passed through your DNA,” he explained. “I did a paper on if for my Psychology class last semester.”
I was intrigued by the concept. Was it possible that I had always possessed the expertise to manipulate the vibration of sound successfully? Was it possible that I had been born with the knowledge and skill to do so, but that it lay dormant within me, concealed until I unconsciously triggered it?
“So you think that my abilities can be explained by Genetic Memory?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “I do.”
“So, do you have genetic memories, too?”
“No, not me,” he shook his head. “You’re the special one, Angie. You’ve always been.”
I laughed. There was no possible way that he was being serious. I’m not special and I’ve never been special; different, yes, definitely, but not special.
“I’m not joking,” my brother said bitterly as he walked to my bedroom window and looked out at the driveway while he continued. “I can’t do the shit you can. I can’t free people from vortexes or manipulate sound. All my stupid ass can do is get lit and get expelled; that’s the extent of my amazing abilities.”
I finally understood the reason for Daniel’s expulsion from private military school. The numerous photos of him with his following of attractive girls at what appeared to be parties and other social events holding beer cans or plastic cups filled with what I only imagined was alcohol in some form were indications of how my brother was entertaining himself while at school. Were his social activities his answer to boredom or were they distractions from something more? I couldn’t help but contemplate the possibility.
“I’m not paranoid schizophrenic,” I confessed. “Mother thinks I am, Dr. Worth thinks so too, but I’m not.”
Daniel shrugged. “I know.”
He turned around to face me, but refused to look me in the eye instead he allowed his gaze to wonder around my bedroom finally settling on the carpet at his feet.
“Angie, I’m sorry.”
I was confused. “Sorry? For what?”
“I know those whispers you heard at night when we were kids were real. I tried to talk to Mom and Dad about them, to explain that you weren’t just hearing things, but they wouldn’t listen to me,” he paused as he lifted his gaze. “I think it was just easier for them to believe that you were mentally ill than to believe you.”
My brother knew the voices were real. He believed me. An overwhelming sensation of relief engulfed me and I welcomed it with a smile. Someone other than Mr. Stokes and Aunt Rachel believed me, so either I wasn’t mentally ill or the four of us were.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear you say that, Dan.”
“Yes. It’s comforting to know that you believe me, because right now, with Aunt Rachel missing, I need someone to be my support,” I explained. “And I’m glad that person is you.”
“I’ve always believe you. I never stopped,” he slipped his hands in the front pockets of his denim jeans. “Because I heard the voices, too.”
What? Did Daniel just say that he heard the whispers of The Ancestors when we were children, too? I didn’t understand why my parents didn’t treat him like they did me forcing him into therapy, hospitalization, and pumping him up with Klonopin or some other drug. If they didn’t believe my claims why did his have validation? If they believed that I suffered from mental illness then why were we treated differently, why didn’t they believe that about him?
“At first it was easy to ignore them,” he began, “but once you started listening to them and paying attention to what they were saying, the louder they got and the harder it was to ignore their constant murmuring. And when they got louder – they got scarier.”
I felt a mix of emotions erupt within me.
“I don’t understand. If you knew the whispers were real then why did you leave? Why did you leave me alone here with them?”
I wanted to understand his motives, to get a sense of his perspective of what occurred during our childhood, because I felt betrayed by my brother and the rage associated with his choice to leave me alone was threatening to overwhelm me. I thought that if I could understand his perspective perhaps I would be able to forgive him for abandoning me.
He took a step closer to where I sat on my bed.
“Mom gave me a choice; go away to military school or get evaluated by Dr. Worth,” he sat down next to me and reached for my hand. “I saw what you were going through. I’m not strong like you, Angie. I never was. I knew I couldn’t do it. I ignored them again any way I could. I took cold medicine or Tylenol PM to help me fall asleep and sometimes I would sneak downstairs and drink Dad’s whiskey. And I stopped talking about them with you. I pretended I didn’t hear them anymore and it worked. Once I got to St. John’s it was easier.”
I nodded. I understood.
“The further away from this house,” he paused. “And you, the better it was for me. Honestly being in this house with you now … it scares the shit outta me, Angie. It really does.”