A Voice from the Grave

Amarala Martin, “A Voice from the Grave,” Religio-Philosophical Journal, 1887

Several years after one of my sweet human blossoms had perished, I spent some weeks at a beautiful resort in Massachusetts.  I had never been there before and had no acquaintance in the place, so that it was impossible for my domestic affairs to be known there.

I found Maud Lord holding séances there, and I went one afternoon to engage a place in one for that evening, and, not wishing to leave my name, I called myself simply number 24.  That evening I found myself one of twenty-seven investigators, most of whom were strangers to each other and the medium, and all to me.

After Mrs. Lord was seated inside the circle, we all joined hands and the lights were extinguished.  Some of us—any who wished it—kept our feet on Mrs. Lord’s all the time so that we might know that she was not “assisting” the manifestation.  When we began singing we were joined by a deep, music voice, which we were told was that of the “control,” Clarence.  It was certainly beyond the scope of ordinary mortals and seemed to float over our heads and sing in our ears and faces; uttering the words as distinctly as any person present.

Independent spirit-voices were audible all over the room, many of them addressing their personal friends at the same moment of time.  Musical instruments were thrumming and flying about pretty lively, among them a music box which was wound by some invisible force as it sped through the air.  It stopped several times and rested on my head and on my lap, seeming much attracted to my locality.  After this was repeated several times I felt what seemed like little fingers about my face and little arms around my neck and heard a whisper saying distinctly:

“Mamma, mamma, I am here; your baby-boy Martin.  Look, while I try to show myself.”

In an instant there was a ball of light before me just a few inches away and out of it grew a face bearing the image of my child.  Seeing it, Mrs. Lord, who was describing a spirit in another part of the circle, cried out, “Oh! see, see that beautiful boy!  Number twenty-four, he says you are his mother.”  The vision faded away before us all, but the voice resumed its story:

The Empty Crib. We're nearer to the other shore since the baby died.

“Mamma, I passed away at sunrise one April morning, and when I was dressed in a pretty, white robe and the people sat in the parlor crying about me, some of them sang ‘Sleep little baby, sleep,’ and it was so pretty.

“Little brother is here and his eyes are just as beautiful as ever.  He is a big boy now.  Sister—helps me to manifest and is very proud of our success.  We are all so sorry when you cry for us.  Please don’t do it any more for we are happy.  Our sister in the earth-home is well.  We went to see her to-day.

“I don’t like this music box like I did my own that you hid in the folds of my dress and buried with me.  You couldn’t bear to hear it any more when I was gone, could you?”

Here the investigators inquired whether or not these statements were true, and I told them they were, in every particular; and that only myself and one other person ever knew that the music box was buried with the baby.  It was also utterly impossible for Mrs. Lord or any one in the circle to know of it.

Here, then, was the little one whose body lay under the blossoms hundreds of miles away, telling me of incidents occurring years before, and proving the continuity of life and love beyond the grave.

Cairo, Ill.


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