Lisa Williams - Life Among the Dead

Names and identifying details of some of the people portrayed in this book have been changed.

Lisa Williams, 2009

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or otherwise be copied for public or private use, other than for fair use as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews, without prior written permission of the publisher.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual wellbeing. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781848500877 in print
ISBN 9781848505995 in epub format
ISBN 9781848505988 in Mobipocket format

My mentor, Merv Griffin

T his book is dedicated to the legendary Merv Griffin, my own personal angel.

I first met Merv in June 2004 and never imagined that this wonderful, warm, caring man was about to change the course of my entire life. He was there for me every step of the way, guiding me along and supporting me, and I will never forget his generosity.

Merv passed away in August 2007 while I was working on this book, but he was present while I continued to work on it, and I assure you that hes with me still. Merv once said that even after he was gone he would continue to executive produce my show, and he has kept his word.

I want to thank you, Merv, from the bottom of my heart, for everything youve done for me and my family.

We love you and feel blessed to have known you.

Lisa, age two and a half

I was three years old when I saw dead people for the very first time.

We were living in a flat in Birmingham, in Central England, our familys first real home, and I soon discovered that we werent alone. Strange faces, balloonlike and oddly translucent, came floating in and out of the walls of my room, and because they were slightly blown up, as if filled with air, they seemed a little clownish. But there was nothing funny about them.

I went to tell my parents. There are people in the walls of my room, I said.

What people?

I dont know. All sorts of people.

Mom took me by the hand and walked me back. Where? she said.

Well, theyre gone now, but they were here a minute ago.

Youre making this up.

No, Im not.

Who are they, then?

I dont know. Just people, some of them look like clowns.

Clowns? Its just your imagination! Go to bed.

The next night, the faces were back. I went into the lounge and refused to return to my room. My parents were just about to go to bed and, unhappy at the prospect of another sleepless night, my father gave me an angry look and marched off. If you want to stay on the sofa all night, thats fine, but Im going to sleep.

I stared at him, even as he switched off the lights and left me in the dark, but feeling guilty, he returned a few minutes later and found me sitting there, still staring. I hadnt moved.

Why are you such a defiant child? he said.

Whats defiant? I asked, scowling.

He picked me up, carried me to bed, plunked me down, and stormed off without saying a word.

For the next few months, the drama continued, sometimes two or three nights a week. An endless array of faces, ghostly and insubstantial, would emerge from the walls, study me for a moment or two, even try to grab at me at times, then just as suddenly dematerialize. Some of them actually addressed me, but I could never make out what they were saying, and they scared me.

What do they say? Mom asked.

I dunno, but one of them comes through the lightbulb and tries to yank my hair.

Comes through the lightbulb?

I just see her arm.

How do you know its a girl?

Dunno, I said, shrugging my shoulders. I just dont think boys pull hair.

Exasperated, my parents finally moved me into the spare bedroom, but the faces were back that very night. Bony old men. Angelic boys. Old ladies. Thin girls with pinched cheeks. I went to get my mother, to show her, but by the time we returned, they had disappeared.

There is nothing there, she said. Its just your imagination. Go to sleep.

After tucking me in, she curled up in bed with me and stayed until I fell asleep.

There were nights when I would lie in bed scared, begging the uninvited visitors to leave me alone. Id bury my head under the covers, thinking they would go away if I couldnt see them. And other nights Id shout at them, Go away! This is my room! I dont like you!

My parents were concerned, but they thought I just had a vivid imagination. This was thirty years ago and therapy wasnt an option in my family. We never really showed emotion, and seeing a therapist wasnt even in the realm of possibility, so they dealt with my complaints by ignoring them. And it worked! Whenever I mentioned the faces, they would roll their eyes and continue what they were doing. In time, I stopped talking about them altogether, and soon enoughtaking a cue from my parentsI began to ignore the spirits. They still came, of course, but they didnt bother me anymore.

I also began to ignore my parentsor at least thats the way it appeared. Lisa! Im talking to you! Are you listening to me?

I would look up from my perch on the floor, where I was playing. What?

What is wrong with you? Are you deaf?

As it turned out, I was hard of hearing. I had compensated for this defect, unknowingly, by reading lips, which I guess Id been doing ever since words first began to make sense to me. If I didnt look at a person directly, I couldnt really make out what they were saying to mewhich was the same problem I had with my nightly visitors.

When I was five, Mom took me to Birmingham Childrens Hospital, where we were told that the tubes to my ears were almost completely blocked. The surgeon cleaned them out and removed my tonsils and adenoids for good measure, and when I awoke I could hear just as well as the next person. This was wonderful indeed, buteven betterevery afternoon at three the nurses showed up with big scoops of ice cream. I loved ice cream so much I didnt want to leave the hospital!

In the summer, I would play in the big grassy area in front of our building, waiting for the ice cream man to show up. When I heard him coming, I would shout up to the third-floor balcony, MOM!!! Moments later, a fifty-pence piece would come sailing off the balcony, tumbling end over end. I would watch like a hawk to see where it landed, then Id grab it and hurry off to meet the ice cream man.

Except for the haunting faces, life was great, especially now that we had a home of our own. My mother, Lorraine, stayed home in those days to care for me, and my father, Vic, worked as a self-employed contractor. Previously, we had lived with my fathers parents, Jack and Josie, in West Heath, Birmingham, They had a two-bedroom house with a lovely, long garden, and Id run up and down the entire length of it tirelessly, urging my grandparents to look at me. My grandfather would always be out there, tending to his plants, and he always humored me by looking over.