Morgan - Life After Death: Messages of Love from the Other Side

SALLY MORGAN

PENGUIN BOOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS

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First published 2011

Copyright Sally Morgan and Nick Harding, 2011

All rights reserved

The moral right of the authors has been asserted

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

ISBN: 978-0-14-196820-9

In memory of Jean Ibottson, who passed in 2010

Backstage, waiting in the wings, the noise level rises in my ears. I cant pick out individual voices, but the sound of the audience is like the sea, building and retreating in swells and ebbs like the waves of a distant ocean. It is made of hundreds of individual parts; voices and laughter flowing together to form a singular body. It sings in tandem with another more primal force, invisible to the human ear but perceptible in my mind. This is the hum of energy that builds up, in and around me as I wait to open the gates, swelling from a place so sacred and so divine that it transcends rational explanation. This is the sound of the dead and it harmonizes with the physical sound to form a symphony. I step from one foot to the other, holding my assistant Julies hand, focusing on the two elements; the audience and the energy that issues forth from spirit, both expectant and both waiting to be united.

I stand in the shadows, waiting. No one in the crowd can see me and I cant see them. Little bits of tape stuck to the floor mark out the places where I am invisible, the places I can stand out of sight, ready to venture into the spotlight. I dont want them to see me before its time. Its all part of the show. But spirit knows I am here and it knows what I am here to do. And its becoming excitable.

Its always black back there in the nooks and crannies of the UKs theatres. You could be in any theatre in any city and the set-up would be the same; dark curtains, dark flooring, dark walls. A blank canvas ready to be painted.

The montage on the screen at the back of the stage begins and the audience chatter subsides. Im prickling like a ball of static electricity. As the introduction music booms from the speakers, individual names and images are beginning to pop into my head. The door to spirit is opening. A rose, a fire, the name Rex, keys falling from a window, John, Annie, Vera, a dog, the twisted wreckage of a car images, sounds and voices flash into my subconscious.

Not yet, I whisper to them. Just a few more seconds.

Im not sure how I do it but somewhere, somehow I put up a barrier. The energy becomes a hum again, like the white noise between radio stations, only soothing, like notes on a piano synthesized and elongated. A beautiful noise, unworldly and strange, yet familiar and comforting at the same time.

As the introduction finishes playing on stage, Julie gives my hand a squeeze.

Its showtime! She smiles.

I step forward from the shadows, bathed in stage light. It is time for me to make my introductions; it is time for the living and the dead to meet.

The cheers and applause never fail to humble me. All these people have parted with their hard-earned cash to come and see me. No matter how many shows I do and I have done plenty believe me, I will always feel grateful and lucky when I enter from stage left and take those first steps to meet the audience. Somewhere, deep in my mind, something clicks. The floodgates are opened. The energy flows in.

Before the stage shows I could never quite understand why the Rolling Stones still toured. Why would anyone that age and with an eye-watering bank balance still be willing to hit the road and travel the world staging ever more spectacular gigs? But now I understand. They dont do it for the money, nor for the fame or the recognition. They do it for that unique feeling you get when you first walk from the wings on to the stage in front of an audience. It is one of the most exhilarating feelings anyone is likely to experience.

As the clapping subsides, its time to get to work.

The energy swirls around me like a cloud of twinkling stars and the stars begin to crystallize into words and shapes and images. They swim around me and through me. There are people on stage with me now. To the audience they are invisible; they are not formed of flesh and blood. They abandoned their physical vessels long ago, but they are there and they want to be known. They are the dead; they are the souls of the departed. Some are serene and beautiful; others bear the marks of horrible tragedy, injury and illness; there are the young and the old, men and women, sometimes even cats and dogs. It can be a strange carnival that materializes with me.

They show me their wounds, they tell me their hopes and fears, they whisper their secrets and show me snatches of their lives. Some wait anxiously, quietly, looking out into the audience; others are more vocal: they jump up and down pointing, laughing, shouting. They tell me things, they jostle and call names. They drift off and return. Sometimes it can be like looking after a class of unruly schoolchildren. One thing I can say for sure is that, in the afterlife, we lose our British ability to queue! They butt in and try to hijack each other.

Im in the middle, all five foot of me, trying to referee this jamboree of the dead. They are pure energy: psychic energy, spiritual energy. They form a cloud, a nebula that spins around the room, filling the empty space and spitting out names and information. It is a process both beautiful and awe-inspiring, and sometimes overpowering. The energy is the key to it all. I am beginning to understand this. It is the force that sits inside us all, and it is what ensures we live on after we die. It is as old as time; it is our soul. Each and every one of us, every living being, carries its own measure of that energy.

Now, as I allow the energy in, the names and images are filling me up. I start to concentrate on individual strands. I start to convulse.

Im shaking, I tell the audience. Im here with a man and I feel like Im shaking. I cant control myself. The spirit tells me his passing was recent. He died within the last month, I explain. Then the name Peter appears in my head. I am directed towards the left-hand side of the stalls.

Who is Peter? I throw the question out to the part of the audience I feel drawn to. A hand shoots up. Stand up, love, I tell the woman, who now has a microphone in her hand. I have a Peter, he cant control his arms and he is confused. His passing was very recent, wasnt it?