Mediums, Migraines, and Magnetite: Making the Connection

By Pat Sahlin

Is it possible for a medium to use automatic writing to have an instant messenger chat with your long lost great-aunt Mary? That s ridiculous. . . . . isnt it? Or is it? It seems that a lot of people are doing exactly that.

Can some people predict an earthquake within a few days, because their ears ring and they have a headache? Documentation is showing that, yes, apparently they can and do.

Its completely impossible to travel back in time via remote viewing to see places and events from centuries ago. . . . isnt it? Perhaps. And then again, perhaps not.

Can a medium create a sculpture portrait of a completely unknown spirit entity with no reference material at all, and nothing but a psychic vision of a ghost?

At first glance, these things may seem outlandish, something from science fiction. Are they? Are they really supernatural, or could it be something more simple? Could it be connected to something science is just beginning to explore; a tiny crystal called magnetite in the human body.

In many ways, this book is as unique and extraordinary as the life and mind of its author. You are about to embark on a precious journey of personal exploration and awakening. If you are looking for adventure and enlightenment, I welcome you to Pats quest for answers.

Gary E. Schwartz, PhD
University of Arizona
Author of The Afterlife Experiments, Living Energy Universe, and The Truth About Medium.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 6, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462844166

Pat Sahlin

Pat Sahlin is a psychic medium who has explored the world of the paranormal for years, looking for answers to these questions. What she has learned may come as a surprise.

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Copyright © 2008 by Pat Sahlin.

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Contents

The Quest for Answers

Introduction

Small Town U.S.A.

Growing Up with Ghosts

An Unusual Family Member

Times Before

Day-to-day (Psychic) Living

Talking to Spirits

A Spirit Makes a Statement

The Spirits Talk Back, with Automatic Writing

Meeting Something Rude

Are Animals Psychic?

A Spirit Demands Attention

Learning As We Go

Things to Get Our Attention

Using a Keyboard for Chats

About Automatic Writing

A Spirit Issues a Warning

Someone’s Calling Me

Practicing Our Communication

Is What We Do Really Real?

Traveling Around in Time

Asking More Questions

The Range of Psi Experiences

A Question of Time

Flying United

The Reality of a Time Warp

A Look at Electromagnetic Energy and tiny crystal called Magnetite

Outside the Normal Spectrum

Can we connect magnetite biomineralization with PSI ability?

Trying Something New—Psychic Sculpture

Taking Time Off—Maybe

Added Thoughts

Conclusion

For those who would like more information:

For Mom and Dad, with love and appreciation.

We’ll go on exploring the impossible until the answer

becomes undeniable, because for all things under

the sun there is a reason.—Pat Sahlin

The Quest for Answers

Gary E. Schwartz, PhD

There are many autobiographies available of remarkable women and men who are genuine psychics, mediums, intuitives and sensitivies, and their life stories are informative and inspiring. Notable examples include best selling books by John Edward, James Van Praagh, Mary Occhino, Robert Brown, and George Anderson. I have been privileged know these people and test many of them—and numerous others—under controlled laboratory conditions.

However, there exist only a handful of books that combine (1) deep personal experience with (2) contemporary scientific theory and research, and (3) make these connections in an innovative, integrative, and entertaining manner. Mediums, Migraines, and Magnetite stands out among this small group. In many ways, this book is as unique and extraordinary as the life and mind of its author.

As you will learn as you read this book, I came to know Pat through her persistence in wanting to understand the nature of her gifts in terms of energy sensitivity and psychic awareness. Pat reminded me of the late Susy Smith, author of thirty books in the field of parapsychology and survival of consciousness after death. Her last book was The Afterlife Codes. Like Pat, Susy had relatively little formal education. Like Pat, Susy was inherently skeptical yet had an open mind and heart. Like Pat, Susy was creative and courageous. And like Pat, Susy was a down-to-earth writer whose playful and insightful prose could be read by anyone.

In fact, the similarity between Pat and Susy’s writing style leads me to wonder, if it’s possible, whether Susy has played a role in helping Pat write her book! Like Pat, Susy loved to edit. And like Pat, Susy had a wonderful sense of humor.

I offer this suggestion because as you will discover, Pat introduced me to the phenomenal possibility that psychic mediums who see deceased people, if they happen to be trained in sculpture, can create accurate busts of individuals they have never met nor seen in physical life. Through a strange and wonderful set of circumstances, Pat spontaneously made a sculpture of a man she did not know who had recently died and who turned out to be involved in on-going after life research in my laboratory.

To confirm whether this was an accident, a one time event, I suggested that Pat invite the late Susy Smith to visit with her. I wanted to see whether Pat could make a sculpture of Susy when she was middle aged. I proposed this because I had a self-portrait of Susy that she had made when she was middle aged, and the picture was not available in books or the Web (at least at that time).

When I first met Susy, she was 85 years old. As described in The Truth about Medium—a book I dedicated to Susy—she became a wise and humorous mentor to me. Susy became my adopted grandmother; she considered me to be her illegitimate grandson. Susy was fond of saying that she couldn’t wait to die so that she could that prove she was still here. My suspicion is that Susy were to adopt any further children, I would not be surprised if Pat was at the top of the list!

Pat’s moving accounts of seeing ghosts, having conversations with deceased people, tracking down mysterious meteorites, exploring connections between headaches and magnetic crystalline structures and psychic abilities, comprise in her words a very strange story. However, it is prudent to remember the old saying Truth can be stranger than fiction. Pat is adamant in reminding us that her book is not fiction. In her words, It’s true. Bizarre? Weird? Completely out of the box? Oh definitely. Probably all that and more. But nonetheless true. As I once told her, Pat is a medium who thinks like a scientist".

You are about to embark on a precious journey of personal exploration and awakening. If you are looking for adventure and enlightenment, I welcome you to Pat’s quest for answers.

Gary E. Schwartz, PhD

Professor of Psychology, Medicine, Neurology, Psychiatry, and Surgery

Director, Laboratory for Advances in Consciousness and Health

The University of Arizona

Introduction

This is a very strange story. It wanders around a bit to cover several topics that may not appear to be at all related. For that you have my apologies. I can only take it as it comes and write it as it has happened, and then attempt to tie them all together into a single package that might make some sort of sense. Of questions, there are many. Solid answers? Unfortunately not. Possible answers? Maybe. Only time and a lot more research will prove whether I’m right or not. I have supposition, guesswork and conjecture, and I can only say this is the way it is for ME. Not necessarily for anyone else. Some of it we’ve proven to a certain degree, but the empirical proof wanted by science, meaning that it can be proven over and over again in the same exact way, simply is not possible with the things I deal with. All I can do is muddle along and form possible conclusions to pass on to others who are interested.

Quite a few people have asked to be able to read the story, or asked me to write it out, and over a period of more than 20 years, that’s what I have done. Publishing it is a different matter entirely. One publishing house said they would take it if I’d write it as fiction. Ah, but that’s the point. I can’t. That would negate the whole point of it, because it isn’t fiction. It’s true. Bizarre? Weird? Completely out of the box? Oh, definitely. Probably all of that and more. But nonetheless true.

What has always completely amazed me is the fact that, while the layperson shakes his head over what may seem a very tall tale, some respected scientists are not surprised at what I have to say, and appear to accept it. Though I’ve lived through each day of it, it still boggles my mind when a quantum physicist agrees with me.

So . . . . in the hope that it might help others to better understand some very peculiar things, I have written it out as best I can. Whether you choose to believe it or not is entirely up to you, the reader.

I should probably not start out by saying that I’m a psychic medium. It does tend to put some people off. It’s much more acceptable these days, and people are not quite so inclined to view us as charlatans or completely whacko, but still . . . . However, it’s an unavoidable issue in this account. If I were not a medium, at least 70% of this book would not exist. I didn’t choose to be psychic. One doesn’t decide to be one, or NOT to be one. It’s just there, whether you want it or not, sort of like your metabolism or shoe size.

I’ve always been a firm believer in the fact that this talent or whatever you want to call it comes with an obligation, to use it for good. And never, ever, misuse it.

So, there you have it. I’m a psychic medium. Not a scientist; no fancy education. Just a medium . . . . with a lot of curiosity over unanswered questions, and maybe a bit of an added twist. I wrote this in the hope that it might help someone, somewhere, in their quest for answers.

The story is written in first person because that’s frankly the only way I know how to go about it. If I switch it to a he said, she said third person sort of thing, then it becomes somehow fictionalized. It’s definitely not fiction. But please keep in mind that, in spite of all the "I" that appears in here, the story is not and never has been about me. It’s about events, about very curious things that have happened, about oddness and anomalies. It’s about "what was THAT?!" kind of stuff, from several different directions.

I am purely a layman when it comes to any of the scientific stuff. I want to make that clear. Any errors in this account, of which I’m sure there are many, are purely my own and I take full responsibility. None can be laid at the doors of the scientists who have been gracious enough to talk with me. My heartfelt thanks to Gary Schwartz, Dean Radin, Bill Tiller, Kathy Creath, Stephan Schwartz, and Jim Beale for their time and patience, as well as their input.

Small Town U.S.A.

Having already said that I’m psychic and from a psychic family, perhaps I should lay in some background to develop a better picture.

I grew up in a small town in Southern California. Not exactly Mayberry RFD, but not too awfully far removed from it. I had what was probably a singularly uneventful childhood, with the exception of one curious fact. We lived in a haunted house. Not that it was ever discussed, you understand, because one simply didn’t talk about things like that at the time. If and when we did, it was only among very close friends and family. However, we had not just one but three spirits living there as well, and it can be pretty hard to overlook something like that. Most of the time life went along as usual, but once it a while it got a bit lively.

We moved into the house in 1947. It had been built by the railroad; I’m not sure exactly when. It was called a section house. I think it was because it was intended to house the section crews that worked on the railroad over that particular section of the line, but maybe it also had something to do with the fact that it was built sort of in sections in a straight line. There were four rooms together, and then a break, followed by four more rooms. This was on the main Santa Fe-Union Pacific line that ran east and west, across California through Barstow and San Bernardino and on to Los Angeles. We got the house because Dad was the Santa Fe agent in town, although I’m sure my folks wondered more than once about the bargain. The walls were concrete and nearly a foot thick. In the summer those thick walls were cool, but in the winter they would get really cold and begin to sweat, so that moisture would actually collect on the walls. The whole thing was so much like the old Roger Miller song choo-choo rattle my window pane; sheet-iron roof tell me every time it rains. Still, my parents turned it into a comfortable and functional home and we lived there for nearly 10 years. Being so close to the railroad track wasn’t all bad, although it seems that invariably, as soon as we wanted to watch a TV program on our old Hawthorn black and white screen, a long freight would idle down outside the house, effectively drowning out any sound. The trains were just a fact of life, and to this day I can still smell the odd biting scent given off by a steam engine when the brakes are released. The wonderful whistle of a steam engine will stop me in my tracks. There are so many photos showing the steam engines as they chugged over Cajon Pass, and I was lucky enough to have the same wondrous engines stop at the water tower behind our house. I remember watching the brakeman swing the arm of the tower over to take on water. I will remember the slow Tccchhhaa, tcchha, tcha sound as they started up again for as long as I live. I can still feel the scratchy wool seats against my legs, and see the conductors in their black hats and jackets, calling out the last minute All abo-o-o-ard! The era of the passenger trains is all but gone now. Although we still have things like Amtrak, it just isn’t the same. I feel lucky to have experienced it in all its glory.

Growing Up with Ghosts

Our house was not large by any means. As I said, the rooms were all square, all the same size and shaped pretty much like boxes strung together, and it was made smaller yet by the three ghosts who also lived there. Two of them must have had some sort of history with the railroad, but I haven’t any idea what it might have been. From their clothing, I assume that they were both from the early 20th century, perhaps the 1920’s or 30’s. There was a man in the peon clothing of a Mexican farm worker, and the lady also wore Mexican or Indian dress. In early Southern California, this was not the least bit unusual.

Of the three spirits, the Mexican lady was apparently trapped in the room of her murder, and she seemed to relive it over and over. She was clearly visible and it was dreadful. We almost never used that room for anything. In all my years of association with ghosts, she is the only one who was so terrorized by her attacker that she seemed to not know it was actually over with. She was one of those rare unfortunates trapped in the event of the time.

The second one, a lady from a very different period in time, was very rarely seen in entirety. She made her presence known by her habit of ‘borrowing’ things. She always put them back, but not always where she had found them. Usually they were found out in plain sight, in someplace really obvious. It could be written off as forgetfulness on the part of one of the humans except that it’s hard to understand how a pair of nylon stockings could be removed from a dresser drawer, out of a cellophane package without touching the seal, and other equally unexplainable happenings.

The lady has been with us for so long that my family has given her a name. It probably isn’t correct, but we call her Millie. Since she seems to travel with the family and will be appearing quite a bit later in this narrative, I will leave her for the time being and move on to the third resident, one that kept things equally lively. This one was the man, and he was very visible indeed. So much so that it often startled friends who saw him and thought he was a living person. So many times my folks would be quietly playing cards or talking with their friends when someone would say a man just walked by the window or someone just looked in the window. Since we had no neighbors, it may have been reasonable cause for alarm, but there was actually no-one there. At least, not a physical person.

One evening we pulled into the driveway and a friend riding with us said someone just went into your house!. He had truly seen the front door open and close and was convinced that we had a prowler. So convinced that he insisted on going around the back while my dad went through the house from the front, to trap whoever was there. Dad humored him, but of course, the doors were locked and there was no-one. BUT when they reached the back door, the light inside the back porch was still swaying on its cord. We were used to our resident, but it was pretty unsettling for guests, although he never bothered anyone.

The man did have one curious thing he liked to do that was nerve-wracking. For some reason he would stand beside my parents’ bed at night, when they were sleeping. With his long shirt belted around his waist and his wide-brim farmworker’s hat, it was disconcerting for my mother to wake and find him standing there.

The rooms were small enough that my parents’ bed was in the corner. It touched the wall on two sides and, since my sister and I were still fairly young, my mother slept on the outside in case she was needed in the night. On one memorable night she awakened to find the man again standing beside the bed. She tried nudging my father awake and whispered to him several times in a voice that she says was rapidly escalating into piglet range, Honey, he’s there again. Bruce, wake up. There he is again. Bruce. Bruuuce! Finally she gave it up and simply leaped clear across my father to the safety of the other side, whereupon the entire bed collapsed with a crash. Needless to say, the man disappeared. It wasn’t enough to keep him away permanently, and as far as I know he continued to wander around harmlessly until the house was finally torn down. For all I know, he may still be there, but now there are no windows to peek through and no people to watch. At least not contemporarty physical ones.

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The old section house. This photo was taken in 1947, not long after we moved in. It has long since been torn down.

An Unusual Family Member

We discovered that Millie was probably a permanent member of the family when, in 1956, we moved to an old Victorian house in town, and she moved right along with us. That was 50 years ago and, to the best of my knowledge, she is with us to this day. In spite of numerous moves up and down the west coast and across the country, she shows herself eventually and lets us know that she came along for the ride. We became so used to her that we gave her a name, and by now that I think there is something missing if she is gone too long.

Yes, Millie comes and goes at will. But how does a ghost travel, and how do we know she is gone? That’s a good question. Things would get very quiet around our house, and eventually an acquaintance would ask if we had seen her lately or mention that she had paid them a visit. This is a dreadful analogy and I hope she isn’t annoyed by it, but think of it this way. Say you have a cat that’s of the quiet sort. It’s rarely seen or heard and just comes and goes, doing its catly sort of things. Still, it’s a presence in the house. Then it isn’t seen for a while. It usually won’t be too long before someone will ask anyone seen the cat? This is a terrible analogy, but it’s sort of that way with Millie. It was in this way that we finally discovered that she seems to travel at will and has folks that she likes to visit. From what I’ve learned over the years, many ghosts can come and go the same way that we do, wherever and whenever they want. At least that seems to be what she does. While it might be a bizarre idea if you are used to the concept that they are tied to a location, but when you think about it, why should they not be able to move around?

Millie liked to stay with a friend of ours, Bob Gordon, who was a widower. Bob always said she was more fun than the neighbors. Personally, I think she knew he was lonely and was keeping him company. While she was subtle with her borrowing habits at our house, when she was with Bob she made a production out of making her presence known, sometimes in a fairly flamboyant way. It amused him no end, and I think he needed it. He certainly seemed to enjoy it. He used to say She’s more fun than the neighbors.

As an example, his wife had used a dressing table that still sat in his bedroom. Bob had been a machinist before his retirement and he was very tidy. Every evening he would place Ruth’s dressing stool under the table when he went to bed. I say he did this every evening, because every morning while our ghost was visiting he would awaken to find the stool sitting beside the head of his bed, across the room from where he had left it.

One evening Millie apparently decided to have some fun. Ruth had owned quite a number of dishtowels; more than they ever used, and the extras were stored in a bottom drawer in the kitchen, separate from the ones in use. She took out every one she could find and draped them around on every available surface in the kitchen. Bob got up in the morning and went for his coffee, only to find his kitchen literally covered in Ruth’s spare tea towels. Once he got over the initial surprise, he enjoyed it immensely.

The only time that I can think of when she borrowed something and didn’t return it was in the case of the missing five-dollar bill. At least, I don’t think she returned it, but it’s hard to say with something like that. This is what happened.

My father had an old friend who also worked for the Santa Fe, Lew Palmer. They had gone to school together in San Bernardino and Lew also worked for the Santa Fe. For a while, he and his wife, Mary, parked their travel trailer next to the far end of our house and lived there. Mary had a doctor’s appointment on this particular day. She was still in bed when Lew left for work, so he kissed her goodbye and carefully folded two five-dollar bills under the alarm clock for her to pay the doctor. (Remember that this was a long time ago.) He then left, locking the door behind him. Now this was not a very big trailer and Mary was alone inside with the single door securely locked. She got up to take her shower, got dressed and picked up the money from under the clock, but there was only ONE five-dollar bill sitting there. Mary always wondered what use Millie may have had for it, but decided she wouldn’t have taken it if she didn’t need it. The riddle was never solved.

Mary was also apparently quite psychic. We never really talked about being so, but she was one of the rare people who had actually seen Millie, and she seemed to take it very much for granted. She had also seen the lady in the terrible reenactment of what seemed to be a murder scene in the room next to where their trailer was parked. We never used the room, and Lew and Mary had been going to use it for extra space. They had put furniture in it to use for a living room, but the first time Mary laid down to take a nap on the couch, she dozed off and saw (and heard) the full terrifying scene of the poor woman crawling across the floor, bloody and battered and screaming for help. She tried it again some days later and the same thing happened. It was so horrible that Mary hated to even go inside after that. Several other people also saw it, including my dad, and the room stood empty and locked most of the time. One day I mentioned to my father that it was funny about that end room and he said oh, no it wasn’t. It wasn’t funny in the least! It wasn’t something that anyone wanted to deal with. We left the poor lady alone.

I mentioned earlier that Millie likes to move things around. Under any normal circumstances it would be easy to write it off as being absent-minded or simply that things got misplaced. However, Millie clearly took it beyond that. The case of the missing stockings was simply one in a whole string of mysteries. Keep in mind that this was during the very early 1950’s. Nylon stockings were a luxury and were not something that was part of a daily wardrobe for ladies in a rural town. They were fragile, and came individually wrapped in clear cellophane packages. My mother had a new unopened package in her dresser drawer, or at least she thought she did. When she got the package out to put them on, the original cellophane seal was still intact, with no sign of tampering at all, but there were no stockings inside. The tissue paper wrapping, yes. Stockings? No. The package was empty. We wondered a bit about that one.

After our move to the old Victorian house across town, a huge move of about 4 blocks, we had a big storage shed out in back that housed things like garden tools, lawn mowers and miscellaneous stuff. Being some distance from the house, it was kept locked. During one of Millie’s more active periods, she decided to play tricks with the keys. First one and then another disappeared. I changed the locks, only to have each new set of keys promptly disappear. When the third set went missing, I finally gave up and simply took the door off the hinges, setting it aside and saying There! Are you happy now? When I went back into the house, all the missing keys were lying in the middle of the big dining table. Other than that, the tabletop was entirely empty. The keys couldn’t possibly be overlooked, and they had most certainly not been there earlier.

In another example of things she did pretty frequently, say you’ve gone to the store to pick up a few things. Among them is a half-gallon of milk. You bring it home and put it away in the refrigerator. A bit later you open the fridge and there’s no milk. Is it sitting on the counter? No. Did you leave it in the car? Nope, not there. No-one else is in the house, so did