In my line of work, each day brings a new story. Some are beautiful. Some are heartbreaking. Some come through quietly, and some hit with so much force you feel them before a single word is said. That is the reality of mediumship. I am communicating with real souls. Real people. People who have loved, lost, grieved, hoped, carried pride, carried pain, and in some cases left this world still clinging to something they could not yet release.
If I’m being honest, I don’t enjoy perusing antique stores. I never really have. For most people, they’re charming. Full of nostalgia. Full of character. For me, they can feel overwhelming in a way that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. It’s not just a room full of old things. It feels like walking into a room where everybody is trying to talk at once. Rows of furniture, jewellery, books, mirrors, trunks, china, and old photographs might look harmless enough, but the energy can be loud. Heavy. Crowded. Sometimes heartbreaking. Sometimes confusing. Sometimes so emotionally charged that I want to turn around and walk right back out.
That’s because these items don’t always sit quietly. Some of them still carry the emotional residue of the people who loved them, fought over them, grieved them, or refused to let go of them. And sometimes it’s more than residue. Sometimes there is an actual spirit still connected to the item, still lingering around it, still trying to be acknowledged. That’s where this work gets very real, very quickly. Not theatrical. Not exaggerated. Just real. I listen. I pay attention. I follow what’s being shown to me. And more often than people realize, the story is still very much alive around the object itself.
I remember one client who reached out after bringing home an antique dresser she had purchased at auction. It was beautiful—rich wood, beautiful detail, the kind of piece that carried dignity. She had been thrilled to find it. But once it entered her home, the atmosphere in her bedroom changed completely. She started waking in the middle of the night to books crashing to the floor, items soaring through the air, and slamming doors hard enough to jolt her awake. There were cold spots in the room that did not move, as though someone were standing there. There was the unmistakable feeling of being watched, not in a dramatic way, but in the deeply intimate, unnerving way that makes your body know before your mind does that you are not alone. Her room no longer felt empty. It felt occupied.
When I stepped into that space, I did what I always do. I listened. I followed the story. Every thread led back to that dresser. Attached to it was a woman, a matriarch, and she was not subtle about how she felt. She was hurt. Humiliated. Betrayed. This dresser had held the intimate pieces of her life—her finest linens, her keepsakes, the things she tucked away because they meant something. It held her pride. It held her identity. It held the life she had poured herself into. And after she passed, the very family she believed would honour her memory sold it to the highest bidder.
To anyone else, it might have looked like they were just selling a piece of furniture. To her, it felt as if they had put her worth on the auction block and let it go.
That is what was crying out through the noise in that bedroom. Not a vague imprint. Not some random disturbance. A woman. A real soul still clutching at the last tangible proof that she had mattered. She felt erased by her own family. The slamming doors, the crashing objects, the oppressive feeling in the room—those were not random events. They were her cry for recognition. I was here. I mattered. Don’t throw me away.
That is the part that gets me every single time, because I understand that clutching so well. When I meet spirits who are still holding on to an object because somewhere inside them it has become tangled up with their worthiness, I do not stand above that pain. I see them clearly—it’s who I used to be. I know what it is to ache in the void of self-acceptance. I know what it is to reach for something outside of yourself and hope it will finally prove you mattered. That wound is profoundly human. The details may change, but the ache is the same—the longing to be seen, the fear of being forgotten, the desperate need to know your life meant something.
Signs of a Haunted Item
- Unexplained Noises: Knocking, tapping, or crashing sounds around a specific object or room that don’t fit the normal sounds of the house.
- Cold Spots: Sudden areas of chill that seem to stay anchored to one place, often near the item itself.
- Feeling Observed: A strong sense that someone is present, especially when you pass by or sit near the object.
- Changes in Behaviour: Pets refusing to go near it, children mentioning someone around it, or a sudden heaviness in the room.
What to Do
- Cleansing Ritual: Start by being clear and intentional. Open the windows if you can. Use sage for smudging, moving the smoke around the item and through the space with purpose rather than panic. Place salt around the object or at the thresholds of the room. And as you do it, set intentions out loud. Be direct. Let the spirit know this item no longer belongs to them, that they are seen, and that they can move on. The ritual matters, but your intention matters just as much.
- Don’t Just Pass It On: Donating or selling the item might feel like the easiest fix, but all that does is shift the burden onto someone else. If there is an attachment there, it needs to be addressed, not handed off.
- Spiritual Guidance: If the presence is strong or persistent, seek the support of a medium who can help close the gap between worlds and support the soul in returning to Source.
Every item holds its own story. When we meet these moments with compassion instead of fear, we create the possibility for peace on both sides. Sometimes what is haunting a home is simply a soul asking not to be forgotten. And when that soul is finally seen, heard, and honoured, a full release to the other side—where love is waiting, becomes possible.