A Life Among Spirits

By Shawn Sellers

A Life Among Spirits is the cultivation of a lifetime of experiences dealing with the paranormal.  Shawn Sellers is the founder of Southern Paranormal Researchers, and this in-depth recollection of his experiences opens the door on the world of spirits and other paranormal events.  More than just ghost stories, these are actual events and detailed information about the investigation into them.  Shawn's family raised him on Hoodoo and brought him up in the world of Freemasonry, giving him an early childhood experience in walking among the other side.  Within these pages those passages through what he was taught come to life.

As an included bonus in this book, you'll find an Addendum of the Spirit World.  For those interested in pursuing ghost hunting, the information will be invaluable.  Another bonus includes haunted Montgomery, giving Shawn's (and his teams) investigations into Alabama's most haunted city.  The SPR (Southern Paranormal Research) journals give bone-chilling insights into other Alabama hauntings as well.  A Life Among Spirits, is not for the faint of heart, what you'll discover may very well change your opinion on the spiritual world as you know it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawn Sellers
• Release date: Jul 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393924203

Book preview

Growing Up Hoodoo

Ican remember a large white space where there were more people like me. The space was filled with an ethereal white glow.  I don’t remember how the others in the space were like me or even what they looked like, but I felt or knew, rather, that we were one in the same.  The space itself was more a bright, white blur than any sort of physical structure.  I don’t remember any defining boundaries of the space, more that it just surrounded us at that moment. In the center of that room was a golden chalice. The people around me started to drink from that vessel, pouring an iridescent liquid into themselves. After a few people had partaken of the substance contained in the chalice, it was my turn to take a drink. I don’t know what it was that I partook of with those people and perhaps, I never will.

The next thing I can remember is being swung in my grandmother’s arms and hearing her singing. I was very small then. I can’t be sure of what age. I told her about the people, the white glowing space and the cup. She seemed to know exactly what I was talking about. These moments are the earliest memories I have and are blurry at best. From then on, she would sometimes refer to me as one who drinketh from the cup. Even now, I’m not quite sure what all that means. I know that, at least, it means I’m different from most people. I can do things that I’m not supposed to be able to do. It is all very hard for me to explain and I suppose that this book is my best attempt at it.

In order to understand me, first you have to get to know Big Mama. I lived with her at her house in the Chisholm community in Montgomery, Alabama. My mother was a free spirit and was rarely around, so I looked up to my grandmother as the stable, maternal figure in my life. My grandmother was a boisterous, stocky lady with both Dutch and Cherokee ancestry.

She was a caring person, but I wouldn’t say she had a sweet personality. She had a habit of speaking her mind whether feelings were hurt or not and did not take retorts kindly from anyone. I can personally attest to that as I have an innate fear of old women wielding thin switches to this day. As my grandfather was the king of the castle, my grandmother was the queen of it.

This was a position I’m sure she was proud of as she flaunted it in most family arguments. She was also known to shout obscene things like Dickhead! or Square-headed Retard! in the middle of those arguments, only to shock whoever was trying to contest her into backing off. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she enjoyed the arguing just as much as being right most of the time.

When I was around six or seven years of age, I had accompanied my grandmother on one of her weekly trips to the grocery store. As we pulled up at the intersection near our destination, we saw a man riding a horse on the left side of the road.

This was near the edge of the city limits of Montgomery in the late 70s and close to where Baptist South Hospital is located on the Southern Boulevard now. The man on horseback was pointed towards a group of horse stables about a mile down the road and was crossing the intersection towards those stables. When my grandmother spotted him, I could see the wheels start turning inside her head. I could almost hear the click as they hit the traction of some mischievous mechanism.

She quickly rolled down the car window and loudly slammed the side of the car while yelling, Giddy-up! The horse reacted with a jump and awkwardly slung his rider around in the saddle as it shot off towards the stables. My grandmother and I laughed until tears rolled down our faces. To us, this was a strong bonding moment. As I’ve grown into an adult, I’m almost ashamed to say that I’ve kept that same sadistic sense of humor.

As fiery and combative as she was, she was also very much what I have always imagined a traditional Southern grandmother to be. She always managed to provide some order, even with my crazy family. Everyone showed up when she cooked incredible family meals of fried chicken, turnip and mustard greens, cornbread, fresh corn, butter beans and many other traditional Southern foods. I still blame part of the gut I have today on her cooking.

She also taught me a lot about life and provided wisdom only grandmothers can impart. As my grandfather and grandmother pretty much raised me, she very much remains the motherly figure in my life even after her passing and still commands a potent mixture of fear and respect in my family to this day.

My grandfather was the quiet one of the pair. He was a large, thickly built man with an almost Native American complexion and relaxed demeanor. Instead of the loud antics of my grandmother, he would merely place his hand on your shoulder, look you in the eye and let you know if you’d disappointed him. He was also well respected in the community. Part of this, I think, was because of how fast he was with a blade. When I was five years old, I witnessed his incredible prowess with a knife first-hand. It all started with an argument at the dirt racetrack in China Grove, Alabama. It was early on a Saturday afternoon in the summer and the woods surrounding the track were still thick with southern pines back then. The track was used for the racing of stock cars and we were there to watch my Uncle Ed and Cousin Greg race. I was standing in the infield of the track with them and harsh words were being passed back and forth from my cousin and another group of men. Being a child, I was more focused on the buzzing of the insects and the loud roars of the cars as they sped by than the words of the argument. As such, I had no idea what the argument was about.

At one-point, mere shouted exchanges of words had stopped being enough and the group of men had broken out in violence. It was then that I saw the blade flash out of my grandfather’s rough hand and strike the man. He just stood there for a few seconds, shocked. I remember seeing the blood from his wounds soak through his shirt a few moments after. As the fight continued, I was rushed off to safety. I can’t tell you any more about what happened after my Aunt Connie scooped me up, but I can’t imagine it didn’t end without a trip to the hospital for that poor man.

My family was also known for a few other things in the community. Chief among them was that my grandmother was a renowned root or Hoodoo worker. In our community, a worker was a person that would perform tasks in accordance with the spirit world on others’ behalves for a fee. The tradition of root or Hoodoo work comes from a mixture of European, African American and sometimes Native American magical disciplines. People would come from miles around to seek either her advice or her work.

While I know that some have termed her practices as Hoodoo, it was not a word she ever used to describe what she did. She always called it her work or root-work. Whatever you want to call it, she was good at it. When people would come see my grandmother, a large cow bell would ring as they opened the gate and they would walk up to a glass door she kept meticulously clean. At that point, she would either wave them in to see her or would wave them away. If she allowed them to come in, she would yell loudly for them to come through the door hoping that in their nervousness they would walk right into the glass door.

I saw many people hit that door. She took great amusement in their embarrassment, but she always told me afterwards, that she did it not just because it was funny but that the embarrassment made them easier to work with. Should you be let in successfully, you would be led to an old carport that they had closed in and turned into a den of sorts. It was a large carpeted space that had a brick wall with a large picture window on the side that touched the rest of the house and several windows built into the remaining walls. Some people would call it a Florida room these days. My grandmother would be sitting in a comfortable armchair colored in a vividly bright red and looking at the client through her traditional rose-tinted eyeglasses. On either side of her were two large ceramic pots decorated with Native American-style art which she had filled with tools necessary for her work.

They were filled to the brim with various notebooks, magical books, materials for sewing magical bags, colored candles, different sets of incense, money given by clients and only the Lord knows what else. If you entered around noon you would be struck with the scent of traditional southern cooking mixed with incense. The savory scents of rendering pork fat and black pepper, the strong odor of bitter vegetables being boiled down with hog jowl or fat-back into something palatable, and perhaps the light, sweet smell of a cake layer or the earthy, oiliness of skillet-style corn bread would mix with the familiar smoky jasmine or nag champa.

Her work room was never all that well lit despite the variety of colored candles that would be burned before the client entered. The client would sit down into another comfortable armchair across from her and she would roll a large brown TV stand that she used as a table from one side of her to between herself and the client. Depending on the client’s request, she would produce whatever tool that was needed from the ceramic pots next to her and get down to business.

As she would give people their readings, sometimes she would let me sit and listen. I can’t recall her ever charging anyone. When she was done, she had a big ceramic bowl that she would tap for her client to toss their money in. She often told me that she never would put a price on her work because those who couldn’t give much would give what they could and those that could give a lot would make up for them.

Often, she would visit other workers in the area. Sometimes to get things for her own work or sometimes just to visit. I remember a black man that she simply called The Reverend. She would get most of her herbs and other things from him. I don’t know too much about him besides his name but I can tell you that my grandmother respected him. There was also Mayhelia.

She was another well-known worker in the area but my grandmother’s relationship with her wasn’t strictly business like it was with the Reverend. My grandmother and Mayhelia would sit and talk for hours about things and sometimes they would work together for certain clients. I remember playing in Mayhelia’s yard with some of her grandchildren while my grandmother and she talked. I overheard them calling one of Mayhelia’s grandchildren one who drinketh from the cup as well, though I can’t tell you what has become of him now.

Around that time, I also started to learn some basic lessons about working with the spiritual world. As far as magic goes, or what I call magic for lack of a better term, there really isn’t an effective practice of battling evil with good. I know how that sounds, but simply, there is no inherently bad magic or good magic. There are only good people and bad people. That is the distinction. Your intention and circumstance are what color your magic and therefore your will. There are good and bad actions that you can take but sometimes in order to defend yourself against the actions of others, you also have to get nasty.

My grandmother wasn’t the only one in the family that walked in that side of things. Her sister had also garnered a fair share of respect. My cousin Cameron and I were in Citronelle, Alabama once for a family funeral. My older cousin Jimmy had died, and the family had all gathered up as per tradition to attend the services. While there, we stayed at my great aunt’s home. It was an old wooden shotgun-style home and due to the great number of my relatives that had gathered there, Cameron and I were made to sleep on the living room floor. Later that night, while Cameron and I were lying on our pallets on the floor and trying to fall asleep, my grandmother said suddenly, Jimmy’s here, we need to talk to him.

My great aunt just nodded and continued what she was doing. Cameron and I started getting creeped out and soon enough we heard one of the screen doors in the home creak open and slam, followed by slow footsteps that creaked the old wooden boards as the weight changed from one foot to the next. We heard the footsteps approach the room we were in, but we didn’t see anyone. Then we saw the rocking chair in the corner slowly start rocking, creaking gently back and forth under a phantom weight.

My grandmother and great aunt stopped what they were doing and walked outside in the dark towards the blackberry patches in the rear of the home. The rocking chair stopped its movement shortly after. They never told me what happened after that.

My first personal experience with death was when my grandfather died. I was alone with my grandfather in his hospital room. My family was downstairs saying their goodbyes to those who had come to visit him. My family had just informed me that my grandfather would be released from the hospital the next day. Supposedly, he was all better. As I was sitting in his room, he got up and went to the bathroom. When he came out, he sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at me. He told me he loved me and fell back dead. I remember standing and screaming for help and instantly, almost like she had already known something was wrong, my grandmother walked into the room. She said something had called for her to come back. As she entered the room, I turned back to see my grandfather’s body lying there on the bed. Then, somehow, I saw his spirit come up and separate from his body.

I also immediately felt the presence of several spirits in the room with him. The energy of love there was tremendous. It washed over me like a wave of cool water, refreshing and omnipresent for a few fleeting moments. As he passed, I witnessed the process of the spiritual body abandoning its physical counterpart. At that moment, I had an understanding of how our physical body is such a very minute part of who we have the potential to be.

Later, at my grandfather’s funeral, I was able to feel his spirit there. Ever since I first noticed my grandfather’s spirit at his funeral, I tend to look for the spirits of the people that have passed at their respective funerals. When their spirits are in this stage of passing, I can often feel their presence there. Most of them stick around to observe their own funerals. As they watch, I can feel them react emotionally to what happens there. I believe that their viewing of their own services is part of their healing processes after death. It is a needed closure of their life on earth. At the end of the proceedings, and if they have no further business here, they will normally proceed into a bright white, conical light. I suppose that this is what is referred to as going into the light.

When I was a kid, I always had an exceptionally hard time sleeping at night. I would constantly wake up to unknown spirits and odd shadows in my room. Some nights, it would be so bad that my grandmother would have to come in and hold me to get me to stop crying. One night was especially intense. It was one summer evening well after my grandfather had passed and there was a lot of trouble going on with my family. It was like there was a struggle in the ranks to fill the void he had left behind. It was a fight for his throne, so to speak. Almost my entire family joined in the fight. They had been fighting all evening and finally, they had all quit for the night. I had just gotten to sleep when I was suddenly awakened by a familiar voice. I sat up to see my grandfather standing in my doorway with a concerned look on his face. He told me not to look out my window, but his mouth never moved. My disobedient streak has never served me well and stupidly, I looked out the window in spite of my grandfather’s warning. I saw the dark silhouette of a man standing just outside. Once my gaze was on him, he leaned in slightly towards the window and showed me his large black eyes. Time stopped and I can’t say how long I stared into his eyes. The gaze was broken by the screaming curse of my grandmother as she bounded into my room and drove the haint away. The mesmerism broken, I immediately lapsed into tears. My grandmother held me and sung to me until I was able to fall back into a fitful sleep.

Soon, I would enter into Seth Johnson Elementary school on Narrow Lane road in Montgomery. As I started attending, the differences I had with other children became painfully obvious. I had no friends for a few years after starting school. I remember feeling like I never had a lot of the opportunities that other children had due to my poor upbringing and awkward personality. I tried too hard to make up for that and I just ended up being pegged as weird and awkward. In the fourth grade, I met Michael Burnett and the Humphery brothers, David and Michael. It was under pretty strange circumstances that we threw our lot in together. It had been storming all day at school, and we were under a tornado watch. Soon, we heard the tornado sirens go off and were directed into the hall by our teacher. My mother had gotten the news that a tornado had touched down near our school and she braved her way through the storm to me. Once she got there, she crouched down with us and covered me, Burnett, David and Michael. We’ve been friends ever since. Although at this point in our lives, we consider each other more brothers than friends.

I remember Burnett as always being the quintessential poor kid. None of us were rich by any standards, but Burnett always had a different kind of attitude about it. For instance, my grandmother would always cook everyone Sunday lunch and after everyone was done eating, she would create a scrap bucket for the dogs. Burnett went to a different church than we did, so he always came over after everyone was finished. All I can imagine is either Burnett’s parents didn’t feed him, or he was extremely greedy. Every Sunday he would sneak back to the scrap bucket and start eating from it. Sometimes my grandmother would catch him and wallop him with whatever she had on hand. As we grew up, he would go and do everything we did but he would always claim that he didn’t have any money after the fact. He expected it to be an unspoken agreement that we would cover him. To this day, patting your pockets down like you’ve forgotten your wallet means Michael Burnett to my group of friends.

Burnett was never a big kid and as he grew up, that didn’t change. No matter how much he worked out, he never showed any sign of developed muscles. Due to most of us being larger than average, he was the obvious runt of the group. To make matters worse, he is also a natural red-head and has the temper to prove it. Unfortunately, that quality often showed itself during inane arguments that almost always escalated into full-blown fights. The knowledge that we would back him up in a fight didn’t help his self-control. Aside from when his temper got the best of him, Burnett was normally the most reasonable of the group and we depended on him to talk us out of stupid behavior.

Brothers David and Michael Humphrey could not be more different in their personalities. Due to their last name, they quickly acquired the nicknames of Hump, for David, and Lump, for Michael, respectively. Since we have a few Michaels and everyone knows David as Hump in our crew, I will refer to them by their nicknames throughout the rest of the book. Mrs. Humphery would always refer to Hump as her weird one. Despite his best efforts, Hump always seemed to live up to that. He is naturally very big and strong and has a loud outgoing personality. He can often be quite intimidating until you get to know him. No matter what he does, he is for some reason very likable and will quickly gain your favor. This hasn’t really worked out too well to build his character in certain situations as he can be given to telling countless tall tales, especially when he is under duress. To his credit, the lies are normally pretty transparent. Hump also used to be known for his supreme break-dancing skills in Junior High. That really has nothing to do with anything I’ll talk about here, I just wanted to embarrass him.

The main thing I can say to describe Lump is that no one rocks the urban look harder than him. I don’t mean that in a way that is disingenuous either. He isn’t Jamie Kennedy from Malibu’s Most Wanted either, that is just him. He has always been fiercely loyal to our group. For example, one night when I was around 16, we all gathered up in my beaten up old Camry and decided to try to visit the House of Crosses in Prattville, Alabama. It is called the House of Crosses due to the large amount of crosses that have been put on the property by the owner. This man had lost his entire family in a car accident involving a drunk driver, so he had spent the last twenty years putting up crosses on his property every day in their remembrance. Some people thought he was crazy but actually, he was just a very humble person. He would always take time to talk to people and show them pictures of his family if you stopped by to visit. It was that evening we had decided to pay such a visit. I liked going there and we had a few people with us that hadn’t been before. Unfortunately, my car had no business traveling the twelve miles to Prattville. On the way back the engine started knocking and the car went dead, I was sure I had thrown a rod. Typical to my luck, it then started raining. I didn’t want to break the news to my mother and grandmother yet, so Hump called Mrs. Humphrey to come pick everyone up and then called his uncle to help get the newly deceased Camry. Since it was raining, everyone left with Mrs. Humphrey who got there first. Everyone but Lump. He stayed with me until the car was picked up and even until I had to break the news to my mother and grandmother and endure the cussing of my life. I’ve never forgotten that.

Just as I grew up and was taught by my grandmother, she would often impart things to my friends as well. I remember that she would always have Burnett, and only Burnett for some reason, bury works for her. Burying works is very important and not something she would assign lightly. So, it is of no surprise that we quickly became interested in the spiritual world at a pretty young age. Oftentimes we would all tell our respective parents different lies about whose house we were going to that night and then ride our bikes over to Huntingdon College to try to get a glimpse of the Red Lady or the Ghost on the Green. My grandmother always found it funny we would actually look for ghosts. In her beliefs, the spiritual world was all around us.

As we grew older, we grew more adventurous. One night we borrowed Mrs. Humphrey’s van and decided to go to Washington Park Cemetery in Montgomery, Alabama. Hump, Lump, Burnett and a few of our other friends accompanied us there. We had heard all kinds of legends coming from that place as kids. There were stories of an old hag, shadow people, a mysterious man wearing an old top hat and several different types of weird animals. One of the most compelling stories to me was that of the glowing gravestones. That night we were going to see what we could find. I was familiar with the area because my grandmother’s friend Mayhelia lived around there. It is also important to mention that although we were underage at the time, we had managed to score a few bottles of cheap wine to impress the females among us. When we got there, Hump, Lump and I got out and started wandering around the place.

After a few moments, we started to get pretty creeped out and Hump led the charge back to the safety of the van. As we were making our way back, there was an emergency call at the nearby fire station and the fire truck pulled out of the station, lights going and sirens blaring. This must’ve spooked Burnett because soon after we heard the alarm sound, we heard the van’s engine crank and saw the van speed off down the road. We were