Over the years, many people have suggested to me that I hear the “call of void.” Too clearly, with too much intensity, or simply too often. I didn’t know what it was the first time it was suggested to me, but when it was explained I was able to apply it to a few occasions in my life.

When we were kids, left up to our own devices during summer vacation on my uncle’s farm, I would walk over to the highway with my older siblings, so we could signal the passing trucks, wishing they would blow their horns for us. Before I had a phrase to refer to and understand the feeling, I would hang back from the others. Standing one or two meters further away from the road and to the side of the other of the other children. They teased me; accused me of being afraid of the speed of the traffic, the size of the vehicles, the cacophony of the blaring horns.

I was afraid I would lay down in front of one of the vehicles. Or push one of my siblings under the large wheels of a semi-truck. Of course, I did neither of these things. I know the thought is irrational. I have no desire to harm myself, or anyone I know.

The urge creeps up on me no matter what I desire.

In times of high stress, or insomnia-induced exhaustion, I hear phantom noises. They range from a hiss or a tap, to loud pounding and deafening voices. Other times they’re at such a natural volume that I think they’re real; so I’ll check the door for a visitor or seek out the speaker with my eyes.

Several people have tried to convince me that this is tinnitus. From what I know about tinnitus, it occurs at regular ongoing intervals, the origin of the noise can be pinpointed inside the body, and while the pitch may change, the volume does not.

I have experienced tinnitus; high pitched ringing occurs a few times a year in one ear or the other. After a concussion that affected my left eardrum I heard clicking and popping for over a week. It was constant. Relentless. Nerve wracking.

When I hear the phantom sounds, they’re situated outside of my body. Knocking seems to come from the front door. Tapping from behind a wall. The doorbell rings from its mounted chime. Whispers spoken from behind my ear, as though there’s someone standing at my back and leaning over my shoulder to divulge a secret. It feels like it’s aimed at me. As though I’m seated at the centre of a circle of invisible speakers.

I never considered these noises unsettling until I realised that no one else could hear them.

Belief in psychic phenomenon was a regular part of my life growing up. My mother and my aunts spoke openly about their instincts, and the way people made them feel. People still talk about my great-grandmother Sadie’s psychic abilities.

Personally, I go back and forth with my belief in the paranormal multiple times a day, even in the face of things that are difficult to rationalize. Let me explain…

It’s autumn. It’s October. It’s spooky season, my favourite time of year, and I have an online journal again. What better time for me to share some spooky personal thoughts and experiences?

If you are scopophobic this might not be for you.

I did not meet my writing goals this week. I carefully laid out my plans, set aside time, and redid my vision board to help me focus.

Then my entire week blew up in my face.

Thursday night, the shadow man came back. I haven’t seen them since we moved into the house. Ian was here when last I saw them. I was afraid. I whispered for him to go away until he left.

Not this time.