The rules in blogging offer that you can blog about anything, but, they suggest only a little over a half a page to keep the reader's interest. So far, all of my blogs prove to be somewhat long-winded, well over a little over a half a page, but then, you should see my hand written letters and e-mails.

I have two blog pages that belong with my website Never Ending Riddle.com. Honestly, if you read one, you've read the other since I copy and paste from one to the next. You know what is strange though, I've learned that one blog page is more popular than the other. I think it's because it has a black background with white font. I know too me, this seems easier on my eyes and ability to focus on what I'm reading on the computer. I tend to blog about what I have experienced or what fascinates me and possible potentials that could possibly play into these. Life, in and of itself has taught me that "Truth is Stranger than Fiction", and I can't say that the experiences I've had fit into the nice and neat little formatted boxes of what most would prefer to percieve as normal. I've often been told by many I've told my stories too that I should write a book. 'Yeah,' I often thought to myself. 'Maybe I should.' Then question was how to go about it. In some experiences, they honestly aren't the greatest experiences to acknowledge and too many loved ones are also involved in the story (I figured this out AFTER I wrote out the manuscript, so it sits quietly in one of my file drawers). I also figured out while writing that manuscript; so many other interesting (at least to me) and inexplicable experiences that most would prefer to call paranormal tend to interweave themselves during that time period as well, so the question of how to bring these into the story, as these had their tendancy to influence different things, yet, they didn't make sense at the time, not any more than they would make sense in a story, so, I tend to draw a blank. The quietly laying manuscript contains such a story and would appear to be two different stories, yet, are only one.

Of course, a lot of the information that we get so easily today wasn't out there then, so, maybe I'm complicating things in my own mind just a little.

For instance; within the story, the characters are given fictitious names, and the story starts out about a genuine repetitive dream sequence I began having off and on from the age of 14 through to the age of 24. I literally watched a 17th century child grow from the age of 4 into a young woman of about 18 or 21 over the years within that dream sequence. Now, mind you, this woman, this dream deeply scared me. What scared me even more was that my conscious mind always seemed to wake up enough to always somehow hear my deeper self identifying her as me. On more conscious levels I fully had to ask myself why I always acknowledged her as me, and ask who she may have been. She was absolutely gorgeous. She was Scotish, always wearing the long white blousy frocks, even as a small girl. Her skin was milky white, yet slightly rosey, her eyes were large and ice blue, and she had thick, knee length, wavy, white blonde hair. Did I mention that she was tall and thin (and then there was 5'2" tall, chubby, chubby me, Shanon). I knew her name was Helena, as I heard her mother call her this many times in the dream.

I had known a little girl in the second grade whose name was Helena, I was drawn to her because of her name, but, she certainly didn't resemble the Helena of my repeating, yet sequential dream. The other thing that I realized about the name itself was that even as early as the second grade, it gave me the creeps at the same time, creeps to the point of scaring me of the girl, who never really did anything to cause me to be afraid of her.

The other troubling thing too me about this Helena was that occassionally I would see her, sometimes quite literally, appearing somewhat as a hologram, other times, only in my mind's eye. She always appeared to be around 18 to 21 years old at these times. Usually, she managed to appear and just stand and look at me when I was the most angry at my stepfather and trying to figure out the best ways to kill a man without getting caught. The fear of her would lose the thougts quite rapidly.

As the repetative dream sequences continued on, I saw what had enraged her at the age of approximately 12 and overheard her promise to her Papa, who was always loud and drunk in the dreams. In the dream, he was yelling at Mama, a darker complected very demur woman, who sat at a large family table in a tall backed chair in a one room cottage. Helena was laying belly down on the loft floor above the room peering over, and quetly telling Papa that he knew what had happened to her was all his fault, it wasn't Mama's and he knew it too. She was murmuring on about how she had begged him not to give the Noble man permission to take her off by herself. Helena didn't care that no other man would ever want her as a wife anymore, she only cared about her promise to Papa, which was that one day, she would find a way to kill him for his callous drunken ways and thinking.

I jerked awake from the dream, fearing this beautiful young girl was genuinely willing to do this, then fearing the question of why I was calling her me. I then found fear in being aware that I had felt that hard cold loft floor on my own upper calves, stomach, and chest.

By the time I, as Shanon, was 16 years old the dream sequence seemed to get stuck and not go any further. It was always of that dark one room cottage, the fire in the huge fireplace burning and throwing off enough light that I, as Shanon, could see that the family table had been moved a little, and the one new fixture in the place was a rustic thickly made cabinet that held a hand pump. I could see Helena pacing the room. She would go to three different doors that seemed to be under the loft as it was pitch black in that area, and she would peer into the rooms to make sure everyone was where she expected them to be. Mama sat in what I assume to have been hers and Papa's room terrified and holding a small boy that I somehow associated with Nephew. Nephew's mother was on a business trip with that brute she called a husband. Brother was with them. A younger sister came to mind, and I somehow understood that what Helena was intending was as much for her, as it was for herself.

Helena stopped in the middle of the room and peered into the darkness and held an odd defensive stance. Then I would see her beautiful face, which sent straight terror through me. She looked possessed, calm, assured, aware, yet, possessed all-the-same. She gave an odd nodd and the spookiest smile as suddenly I became aware of the ticking of a large clock, then she moved to the table to sit down and wait, laying the biggest butcher knife I've ever seen in my life down on the table top next to a single long white burning candle.

My mind would begin racing to do one of two things, either pull myself out of this horrid dream or find a way to stop what I was sure she was going to do.

Before I continue on, I will go ahead and mention that I have had a very inexplicable fear of huge butcher knives since I was a very little girl, as well as a fear of losing my hands. I've slept with my hands under pillows or blankets for as long as I can remember just to be sure I still have them in the morning.

Within the dream, the next thing that would happen in that stuck sequence would be the only entry door beginning to rattle as if someone were coming in. My attention would divert to Helena sitting at the table as she smiled that chilling smile and slipped the knife just under her long white frock, then my attention would always turn to the door, and I, as me, would beg Papa not to come in. My sheer horror would awaken me before the door fully opened for years.

This part of the dream by itself terrified me, but, what terrified me more was one time when I was staying with a couple of girlfriends (my stepfather was more angry at me than usual and my mom had said that if he came by looking to give me a hard time to call someone, as the girlfriend's mother was working. Looking back, I was honestly feeling very protective over each of us. Anyway, as the evening drew closer to the time my stepfather would be getting off of work, in my mind's eye I coud see Helena going from room to room with that huge butcher knife and peering in. I was doing all I knew to do to try to push her out of my mind, up to, and including thinking about God. Out of the blue, one of my friends began a conversation about God, to which I was grateful. She was asking me questions on the subject, which I began to try to answer, when all of he sudden she stopped me and asked me if I was going to stab her and the other friend. I had no weapon on me, I was shocked and creeped out due to Helena's image still being so strong on my mind, and asked her why she would think that. "I don't know." She said. "I can't really explain it, but I keep seeing you, but she isn't you, but, she is, no . . . She's you, but she's not! But it's like you are walking around this house with a huge knife looking in all the rooms and have every intention of stabbing someone." Her statement really scared me, as this is exactly what I was trying to lose from my own mind. I asked her if she preferred I go home rather than stay the night. "No!" She insisted. "I know you wouldn't bust a grape if you thought it would feel the pain, it's just that woman, I can't shake her! It's really freaking me out! I want you to stay, really I do! It's just that, if you don't mind, tonight, we're sleepin' three to the bed with you against the wall, so us two can feel ya move if you feel ya have to get up for some reason." I honored her request and the night went without incident. But, Helena's ability to make others aware of her truly bothered me for the longest.

I was around 22 years old before the dream finally broke its stuck sequence pattern, and got stuck in the following sequence, just after Papa opened that door. "Aaahhh 'elena!" He would always say in his loving but drunken Scottish brogue. "Ye be jist the lass I be wantin' ta have a word with!" Helena always invited him to sit very close to her on the bench at the table, and I would beg Papa not to go so close to her. Before he finished his proposal to her to consider marrying a man who had an interest in her, the expression on his face would turn to total shock, and that cruel, chilling, deadly smile on her face would tell me all that I wished I didn't know. She twisted, then quickly pulled the knife from his torso. He backed away quickly holding his stomach, only to look up and see the knife coming down into him again. This time, I heard the flesh tear, saw his intrails fall to the floor, and could smell an awful bile smell. Inspite of this, Papa began trying to make it as quickly as he could to the door, with Helena chasing, stabbing, and laughing, and occassionally screeching at her upset at her frock getting in her way. She was covered in blood as she gave that insane laughter, then suddenly, once again lunged on top of Papa, who was still managing to breathe. She had the knife held above her head, preparing to thrust it into him again when I, and apparently, she heard. "For the love of Christos 'elena . . . What 'ave ye done?" It was as if the statement sobered her up, because the shock and remorse that came across her face was filled with such pain and horror. Then, I could manage to escape from the dream.

I will offer here, that years later, I met a woman who had always lived in the North, I, at that time had always been in the South. She and I only knew one another for a very short time. One night, we were discussing dreams, and I told her of this one. "Oh, don't mention the last part of it." She said, before I reached the point where Papa comes in the door. "I've always been terrified of that dream! I hate it! There's so much blood all over that room before she's finished, and that laughter she has . . . I'm always hiding just behind the grandfather clock under some sort of loft watching in sheer terror . . . and the worse thing is, even though that girl isn't me, some how, she is, and she's watching her sister, knowing she's killing Papa to try to keep her from marrying someone she has no interest in. That girl, Kathrine, I know she was me . . . She never wanted to see Papa dead, she just didn't want to marry that particular beau and Papa wouldn't listen because I was a girl." She then offered. "It was like that woman was possessed. She had a demon in her, it's like I could see it and hear it! Every time I've ever had that dream it's like it's always too real! I remember the girl saying, 'For the love of Christ Helena, what have you done?' and she stopped as if some kind of spell had been broken . . . She was so sorry, so genuinely sorry, I wasn't afraid of her anymore and only wanted to know how to help her."

Amazed at this woman's awareness of what I seemed to be aware of, I asked her to describe the layout of the cottage and the grounds it sat on. We then, both took a piece of paper and began sketching out what we remembered from our separate dreams and found these matched too perfectly.

I asked the woman if she ever knew what might have happened to Helena. She said she didn't, but, she knew it had to have been bad.

I knew, because around the age of 24 the dream sequence finally finished itself out. I, as she was hiding behind a large boulder when some men came and grabbed Helena up kicking and fighting for her life. They tied her with rope and threw her across the back of a large dapple gray horse. The next repeating sequence sends me as me traveling through a peaceful wooded area, where a large stone building surrounded by a tall stone wall begins looming and the peace is broken. I don't want to go back there, but it is as if I have to. I am suddenly over the wall looking at a large courtyard full of shabbily dressed to nude people, both men and women. Those who seem well-dressed are cruel to the people. I look at the doors of the great building and automatically know that what goes on in there is far worse than anything that people suffer in the courtyard. I never want to go back in there I already know what the main floor looks like. I turn my attention back to the courtyard because I want to find someone, I'll know the person when I see them. My focus lands on a tall, very thin, almost skeletal woman whose hair has been shaved from her head. She is bracing herself against the stone wall trying to defend her body from the well-dressed man who is telling her she deserves the beating she's about to get for pulling his hair. He raises the hand that is holding a whip, she, at the same time raises hers to avoid the whip's impact against her body, which is when I notice, she no longer has any hands, they have been removed, and at that time, her wrists were bound in filthy bandages.

I always managed to jerk myself awake just before he gave the first lash, but, the dream wasn't finished communicating what it wanted me to understand. Again, I would find myself going down the trail of those woods, this time realizing I really didn't want to be there. Suddenly I would be over the stone wall scanning the courtyard. It was cold, snow was blanketing the tops of the stone wall and the ground. There were huge metal pots holding fires in them in different areas of the courtyard. The well-dressed men were huddled around them and not allowing the poorly dressed or naked, who huddled together for warmth, to come near the fire pots. I would scan the huddled groups looking for that one particular face. My heart seemed to drop as I looked toward piles of hay at one end, near the wall. There was a body laying in the hay, so, I began approaching. She was still naked. Her skin was grayish blue, as I drew closer I saw that her white blonde hair seemed to have grown about an inch, it was full of parasites. I gently moved around to where I could see her face. Her big ice blue eyes were wide open and glossed over. Something inside of me was twisting, almost wretching, but, I had to see if it was true that she had lost her hands. All I saw were the nubs of her wrists. I was actually mourning this woman who had so deeply scared me for so very long. Suddenly I saw one of the well-dressed men approaching her and yelling for her to get up. I stepped over her to try to beg him to leave her alone, as he continued yelling and threatening her, he passed right through me unaffected. I turned to see him kicking her torso hard enough to jolt it around, and I couldn't grasp onto him to make him stop. He called her a dog, then stated he wouldn't be the one bothering to bury her, and marched away.

I went back and sat in front of her crying and apologizing for his cruel treatment of her, I studied her dead face and began to recognize that I understood why she went after Papa the way she did, and for as bad as his death was, no one, but no one deserved to suffer through what those well-dressed men put her and the others through. She, nor anyone of them deserved to die as she did. I suddenly heard myself saying. "Yes, I love her." Then began to realize that for the first time in all of the years the dream sequence presented itself, Helena was actually speaking to me. "Aye, I have paid me pentence. I was wrong, there's no denyin'. Thank the Heavens there be a Guvner within it, the Christos, who is kind. Ye know who she be, don't ya Shanon?" She said. Unwilling to answer, I could only think, 'I don't know that I want to know.' Helena gently giggled then said in her Scottish brogue. "Aye! Her name be Helena McLolly. It be true I put ye through enough all these long years, but ye must know, I felt I had to get your attention! The Guvner of Heaven allowed me this way. He gave us a second chance ta try again ye understand. T'was yer rage t'ward yer stepfather that awakened me, and like me, ye had ever Earthly right ta be angry. I know what it is ta be strapped ta one who brings harm and won't listen, but, I also know what it is ta pay pentence fer killin' a man, even a bastardly soul such as Papa er yer Stepfather. I was so sickened by what I done, and knowin' I could never change it . . . Then this! Don't ye be thinkin' yerself so different from me Shanon, we are one in Spirit, I knew ye had it in ye. So, I had ta get yer attention. Like it er not, I be glad I scared ye as I did! Ye overcame! Our spirit can now look upon the Guvner and know this. Yer free ta have a life, ta love a family, and never hold the hatred and rage in yer heart that ye've held there fer yer stepfather. It is done! Unlike Papa, he still lives well passed the years I was when I took away Papa's life! Ye overcame! We're free now. We're free, and it's all due to the kindness of the Guvner, Christ, who insisted it was our Spirit's own place ta overcome such desires within rage. Aye . . . t'was done, and by grace, I was allowed to intervene jist enough ta scare ye. We can face the Guvner, our Lord and Christ without shame now."

The scenarios in that dream sequences bore some remarkable similarities, mostly in the characters of the people within the family, yet, not completely regarding the rage that set her off verses what sat me off, and my story stands to embarrass and possibly hurt so many within the family for entirely different reasons (even though they were there as well), it's really hard to know how to tell it.

But, she has caused me to be thankful for her, and beg yet another question that I've noticed not even paranormal investigators or psychics have ever posed or even acknowledged . . . Just how often does it happen that we come back to haunt ourselves to overcome, or, perhaps seek an old vengence?

By the way, since I couldn't imagine or even believe that anyone could have a surname like McLolly, I went ahead and looked the surname up. There are McLollys all over Scotland. I've not researched the possible existence of Helena McLolly because she lived in the 17th century, and appeared just a fraction of a class below Nobility, so, I'm none too sure there were be any records.

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