We’ve all experienced them at least once in our lives, those inexplicable, unnerving instances that make us wonder whether dark forces are at play, their subtle and sinister hands manipulating our reality from afar. They leave an impression, an indelible mark at the deepest levels of your subconscious, buried away by overwhelming reason, the steadfast grip of sanity, and a fear of the unknown and explained. We all have these stories. This is mine.
It happened so long ago, I can barely remember when, but I do recall it was a quiet night at my childhood home. The plan had been for a group of us to get together and resume play on a gaming campaign interrupted by an early school night, but a storm front had moved in late that day, washing out some of the local roads, making for treacherous driving conditions. A couple of my friends had already called to cancel. The simple fact that I hadn’t heard from the others gave me hope that, perhaps, we would manage to salvage the evening by literally weathering the storm that was battering the area with high winds and a torrential downpour. My parents were out, stranded at my aunt’s place, my sister visiting a classmate, leaving my friend Paul and I alone in the empty house, seated downstairs, waiting.
The lightning flashed and the basement lights flickered. I could sense Paul’s unease, his impatience. It was looking increasingly likely we were going to be rained out. As both our eyes slowly gravitated to the clock ticking past 8:30 p.m., I was suddenly struck with a thought. “Hey. I have an idea.” Without explanation, I got up and disappeared through the door in the back.
Paul followed me, past the washer dryer, and into the garage where I hunkered down at the foot of a mountain of discarded childhood treasures. The garage bulb had burnt out long ago and we hadn’t gotten around to replacing it, so I searched in the darkness until I found what I was looking for, retrieving it from the pile and holding it aloft. “Got it!”. From where he was standing, he couldn’t tell what it was at first but, once we stepped into the light, he realized – and frowned. “Seriously?” In my mind, the circumstances couldn’t have been more perfect.
I don’t know how my sister had ended up with the ouija board and, looking back now, I’d think it would have been something my mother, a minister, would have frowned upon. Then again, she may have simply dismissed it as one of many silly board games along the lines Clue or Sorry which also lay buried, somewhere, in that corner of the garage. Surely, Hasbro’s recommendation of “Ages 8 and up” was enough to forestall any ominous implications. And Paul seemed to be of like mind when, after a roll of his eyes, he acquiesced with a shoulder shrug.
We cleared the table of multi-sided dice and hand-painted figures, and set it up – the faux wooden board with its ornate letters and numbers, eerie images in its four corners: a grimacing sun, a frowning moon, practitioners of the dark arts pictured on lower left and right. At the top, the word OUIJA flanked by the words YES and NO; at the bottom, the word GOODBYE inexplicably, forebodingly, split in two. We sat down and touched our fingers to the heart-shaped plastic diviner, what the instructions referred to as “the planchette”. It was surprisingly warm to the touch. Suddenly, a thunderclap jolted us out of our seats. It was, I thought, as if some supernatural force was warning us off. But I didn’t give voice to my mounting dread and if Paul had similar concerns, he didn’t speak them either.
“What do you want to ask it?”I said.
Paul briefly considered and then, decided: “Who’s going to win the Super Bowl?”
A fair question. As we resumed our positions, the tips of our fingers gently resting on the planchette, I voiced the question aloud as if in so doing, I was communicating directly with the spirits. “Who’s going to win the Super Bowl?”
As we sat and waited, utter silence descended upon us. Strangely, mysteriously, the thunder and rain had stopped. I could almost feel my own heart beating through my chest. The basement lights flickered once again.
Five minutes. Ten minutes. Then, a movement, ever so slight, what at first I suspected to be Paul moving the planchette may well have been my own trembling fingers. I took a breath and refocused. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Another movement, ever so slight. I realized, I was holding my breath. We waited. And then, Paul broke the silence: “Boy, I hope it’s not trying to spell San Francisco Forty-Niners!”
Okay. Your turn!
20 thoughts on “December 3, 2017: Brush with the supernatural!”
LOL! Did they win that year?
I’ve always had the ability to know things are going to happen right before they do, but it comes and goes and mostly when I’m not thinking about it. Happens often enough to not remember most of it, but some things stick out in my mind.
I saw the twin towers both drop before they actually did; I was watching the news on 9/11, saw the second plane hit, and all of a sudden in my mind I clearly saw them both crumble to the ground. I was on the phone with a telemarketer from Florida at the time I was watching (it was before we had caller ID so I was still answering the phone) and I told her what I had just seen and she said “no, I’m sure that’s not going to happen.” We had already ended the call when they fell.
I also knew the night my grandmother died; she came to me in my sleep to say good-bye, and for some reason I wet the bed that night. I was eight or nine, so old enough not to do that. I woke up in the morning, and my mom came in the room to tell me my uncle had just called and I interrupted her and said “yeah, I know. Grandma died last night. She came to me to say good-bye.”
More recently, we were touring a fort in Niagara-on-the Lake, and as we were walking up to a specific area I suddenly had a hard time breathing. My chest felt very tight, and I had to really work to catch my breath. It wasn’t a strenuous walk and I’m in otherwise good health, so I figured it had something to do with the area. Once the group had all gathered the tour guide proceeded to talk about some of the buildings around us. He didn’t mention the one I was standing closest to. As we walked away from the area, my chest got lighter and the pressure went away. One of the other guests asked about the building she and I had been standing next to, and he said that was the hospital building, then mentioned something about the number of deaths that had been recorded there. So that explained my inability to breathe.
I’ve had a couple experiences ghost hunting too, but didn’t have my own equipment so I’m not sure what came from my conversations with the lights. Going to a haunted bed & breakfast in Cape May the end of January. Bought my own digital recorder for this one, so may be I’ll catch something.
Can’t beat that one. Ouija Boards are creepy. I forgot I had one and discovered it lurking in the basement. I got rid of it shortly after that and am glad to have it out of the house. Maybe I’m a wee bit superstitious about some things…
After my parents divorced, I didn’t see my dad often.
But I clearly remember one time at age 4-5, he had taken me to my grandmother (his mother), where I was spending a night.
It was a clear night and almost totally dark, if it wasn’t for the fullmoon shining through the small bedroom window.
I slept in grandpa’s bed – they were separate – and at some point in middle of night, I woke up. Not exactly sure why, but I sat up straight with legs over the bedframe.
I noticed another kind of light in the shape of a sphere hovering above my sleeping grandma – back and forth a couple of times.
Even as a child, I knew this wasn’t normal and that maybe, I was sleeping and dreaming it – so I pinched myself HARD in the arm to make sure, I wasn’t.
The sphere was still there, but now it was on it’s way to the outside through the closed window…
I had no idea, what it was and was so confused, and I had to wake up grandma to tell her about it.
She, of course, just said I must have dreamt it – but to this day, I know for a fact, I saw it and that I wasn’t dreaming at the time.
Who’s next? 🙂
Okay, this is a story that I have not told often, mostly because it’s ominous, dark, confusing, and downright frigthening.
The earliest memory, not just one of the earliest memories, but indeed the very earliest memory, I had as a kid was waking up one night in the midst of a very loud and lightning rich thunderstorm. The lights were off in my bedroom (which was normal), but as I climbed out of bed and made my way to the hallway, I discovered that the hallway nightlight was off and in fact there were no other lights on in the house.
Through the thunderclaps I heard yelling in the kitchen. Following the noise I found my father at the open door to the basement stairs where he was arguing with my mom about where the spare fuses and flashlights were. With my dad standing to the side of the basement door, my attention was drawn to the open doorway. All I could see through the flashes of lightning was this dark empty space beyond the door. It seemed malevolent and alive, and the lightning flashes did nothing to eradicate its darkness.
Staring at the door, I felt an involantary shudder as my dad found the flashlight and fuses and made his way back to the basement door. He turned on the flashlight and it immediately sent out a cone of normalness that drove away the darkness in the kitchen, but only where the cone fell. Just beyond the cone’s reach, darkness waited.
I had a sudden feeling that as dad made his way into the basement, taking the only light source with him, that the darkness would swallow my mom and me. I started screaming for dad to take me with him, which after arguing with my mom, he angrily agreed to do. As we went down the stairs, I still felt the darkness around me, but I told myself that I would only look at where the flashlight beam fell, and nowhere else.
Dad and I made it to the fuse panel. He sat the flashlight on a shelf, pointed at the fuse panel as he opened the panel and started to work. Ignoring the darkness at my back, as I watched dad work, I tried to pretend that the rest of the basement was lit but I didn’t dare turn my head to look. I just kept focusing on my dad.
Suddenly, a lightning bolt struck somewhere just beyond the backyard, so close to the house that the sound and the flash occurred simulataneously. My eyes darted involuntarily to the casement window where the light from the lightning bolt flashed into the basement, and in that moment I saw a man in a black suit with bright blue eyes standing in the casement well staring at me. The moment seemed to freeze with him just staring at and through me…then I screamed.
I don’t remember any details beyond that. Over the years, I just assumed it was a nightmare I had had as a kid. The house from the dream wasn’t familiar to me, as the layout was different from the house of most of my youth (growing up with my mom and my grandmom at grandmom’s house), and since my mom and dad separated when I was three years old, I just assumed that I must have dreamt this scenario from a scary movie or something similar…too many Radio Mystery Theater radio plays on my AM radio at night perhaps?
By my teenage years I had written it off as a “scared little kid’s dream”, even though I’d ocassionally redream it every couple of years or so. Then one day in my late teens, just as I was about to graduate high school, I had the dream again, but much more vividly than previous times. I woke up in a cold sweat, and since it was around 6am, I decided to stay awake rather than go back to sleep. My mother noticed I was up early and asked what has gotten me up; after all I was a high school teenage male who would happily have slept until noon, given the chance.
I explained to her the dream, in vivd detail, even going into the ominous feelings I had felt about the darkness, and screaming when I saw the man in the black suit. She turned pale for a moment, and then told me it wasn’t a dream, that it was a real memory, and that it occurred in 1968 when I was three years old. My mom and dad were still together then, and we were living at their house in another town. I described the house layout and she confirmed it was their Aspen Hill home.
She was amazed with my recounting. She never imagined I would remember that night as a three year old, but apparently I had.
So this nightmare was real? Somehow that made the images in the nightmare worse. I asked her about the man I saw, and she said that I had said the same thing that night as a three year old; that I saw a man standing in the casement window, but dad looked and never found anyone. Shortly after that my mom and dad separated and we moved in with my grandmother.
Was the memory of the darkness and the man in the black suit just something that my three year old subconscious fabricated to make sense of the marital strife going on around me? Was it a place to embody the emnity I heard in my parent’s arguments? I have no idea. But the recounting of it and the realization that it was indeed a real memory put a name to it so to speak, and in doing so, it lifted the hold it had on my dreams. I have never dreamed about it since.
But there’s always tonight…
When I was fifteen I made, after some careful consideration, an attempt to exit off this planet, via a packet of broken sewing needles. The idea for the needles came from my favourite author when I was ten – Willard Price, writer of the “The elephant adventure”. Witch Doctors in that book killed their enemies by dicing finely the whiskers of Tigers and hiding them in their enemies’ food. The whiskers being indigestible, travelled through the digestive tract or whatever, eventually puncturing the lungs or heart of the victim in a quiet and deadly fashion. Tigers are sparse in New Zealand -hence the sewing needles.
It’s hard swallowing a handful of needles – they scratch and stick in your throat. I didn’t believe in an afterlife, as a teen I valued science and had formed the first atheist group in High School. So I held on to the comfort of a future oblivion and swallowed those needles down with bread and milk to push them past my throat.
Here’s where it got strange. I got a feeling not from within, but an impression from outside coming in, it seemed to take hold of each cell in my body and vibrated each and every one. The “flavour” to the feeling, so nearly spelt out in words; “WRONG MOVE”. I was shocked.
I remember, mentally stuttering, inwardly affirming – “There’s nothing! – Nothing!” But the feeling persisted – “WRONG”. When it went, I was shaken. But I persisted, assuring myself it was some psycho-survival mechanism kicking in.
A few weeks before, I had read recently that a man had died in the cold south of Invercargill. He’d swallowed a pin the day before and they’d found it twenty-four hours later lodged in his heart. So I figured I’d have time to go to bed, get up the next day, catch the 8.30 school bus, skip school, wander over to the nearby Hospital and drop dead somewhere, where it wouldn’t bother anyone. Hospitals are a convenient place to die, without ruining someone’s day.
That night, when I lay down, I felt as if the darkness thickened. I remember lying so very still, not being able to move, and not being able to get the blankets off me. Suddenly a heavy, a weight pressing onto my throat, not being able to cry out. I felt so scared because I couldn’t even speak out loud.
I remember a point where I couldn’t feel, seemed unattached and not present to any physical part of me. I imagine I was in a lucid dream. At that point I heard the noises. Horrible, muffled intense, a half-heard cacophony of sound – but penetrating, like the way the sound of fingers against the chalkboard go through you. I remember “seeing” on my right side a distant hole open up, looming close, dirty yellow lit. And I remember suddenly present to something else – instantly fighting and a ‘knowing’ that I needed to fight, to not go through the hole.
(Much later a year or so later I noted to myself, two interesting things: One, an instant inward “recognition” of this “something else” and that recognition instigating that fighting response. Two: that “something else” was a “someone else”.)
After a time, I came to a point where I knew I was going to lose. In my need, I called out to my friends, from my heart. But I was still losing. The next point I came to, was there was no one else to call on except the obvious – “God”. If I had been wide-awake I would’ve been so pissed at the cliché. I didn’t believe in God.
But it was worth a shot, I didn’t believe in a God but I didn’t believe in what I was going through either. The thought came to me of the only scripture I liked enough to remember “God is love”. So I thought if He really is love, he would recognise the call, the need even if I got his name wrong. I inwardly pleaded “LOVE”
Everything stopped and I don’t remember another thing from thereon, until waking the next morning. I groggily turned over and checked the clock. 11 Am. Monday morning – school day. Why didn’t my foster – Nana wake me at 7.30?
“Are we sick?” That would explain everything! I pulled the blankets off. I’m sweat-wet all over. My ‘jamas are twisted and stick to me in places.
I stand up. I crumple down. I hold onto the wall and walk myself upright until I’m steady. I walk, carefully placing my bare feet to Nana’s room. I shake her awake. She opens her eyes, wide-eyed she grasps my hand and says: “I did try to get to you last night Kathy, I did try, but I couldn’t get the blankets off me” And slipped back into sleep.
So I’m standing there in a blank funk for a while.
Then I think to myself: “Okay, you know it’s real. But it can’t be real. Alright, two things it’s real or you’re going crazy.” “If it is real – how do you really, truly know…? Well, I reasoned; science says the actuality of the event is established by the witness of 2 or more observers reporting the same event.” So I felt I should still go to school and see the friends I called out to. I got there a little after lunch just before music period started and asked some classmates where Pauline and Ann were? They were sick today. So I ran off. I ran a mile and a half to Anne’s’ house.
I’m in her home, her bedroom and she’s stretched out in bed. Her mum comes in and says, “I think it’s the flu”. I wait till her Mum leaves and ask her: “Did you dream about me last night?” Her mouth drops open and she says:
“Funny thing but I did. I had a nightmare and you were screaming and calling out to me.” She went onto describe the darkness and the noises.
“Do you feel headachy – drained..?”
Her Mum comes back in hearing her dream description and says: “Anne, do you think someone dropped you some sort of “happy pill”, at yesterday’s party?”…
When, I left her house. I felt, scared, excited and fascinated. I ran over to Pauline’s – same story.
I was blown away. That experience made the world fundamentally shift for me.
There is absolutely no way I would touch or play with a Ouija board. I have no interest in opening up a conduit for evil. We have too much in the world as it is.
Anyway, my story is from the eighties(I know, dating myself). I was a nurse working full time evening shift at a nursing facility in Sleepy Hollow, NY. I was in an abusive marriage & my son was very young. I drove a older model Chevy Chevette at the time. I left work just after 12 midnight like usual and headed up north on my regular route. My ride was about a half hour with no traffic, at night. Darn few streetlights but I knew my route well. About 10-15 minutes into my ride, I heard a noise and felt unevenness suddenly, I knew I blew a tire. I slowed down and was able to pull into a small deserted shopping center parking lot. This is prior to 24 hour grocery stores and cell phones. I had never been taught to change a tire and I figured I didn’t have the strength to loosen those lug nuts anyway. I had seen the machined lug nuts applied when I had gotten tires put on in the past. Looking around, I spied a pay phone, calling my (ex)husband. I told him what happened and needed help. He practically snarled into the phone, “What do you want me to do about it?! You want me to wake up our son, come down and help you?!” I said “NO!” and hung up the phone. I was really in a pickle now. I figured I had no choice but to try changing the tire. I looked at the car manual, gathered up the jack, tire iron, the “baby tire” as I call it and my flashlight. I started setting up the jack when suddenly, a shiny, brand new black eldorado pick-up pulled up next to me. A young man dressed in a white tee shirt, black jeans, black baseball cap and white sneakers got out(he was alone), came straight over, taking the jack and placing it under the correct part of the car. Wordlessly, he changed the tire very quickly, then placing the jack, tire iron and blown tire into the back of my car. I could not discern his face, but could tell he was light complected black man. I offered some money (didn’t have much) but he placed his hand up in decline and I thanked him profusely. Just as wordlessly, he got back into his pick-up (I could barely hear it’s engine running) and left. I watched as he pulled out of the parking lot, feeling immensely grateful for the assistance I received that night… from someone I bellieved to be an angel.
Haha, Joe! Great story.
I have one but it’s kinda long and I have to go out. I’ll post it in a bit!
I have two stories, one from Navy boot camp, and one about my Aunt Kay.
The US Navy used to have three boot camps; I attended the one in Orlando. The buildings were old, creaky wooden barracks, originally used when the base was an Army airfield in WWII. Three stories tall, each wing held one berthing compartment per floor, with the compartments being interconnected at a central stairwell. The head, laundry, office, and training room were all inward, near the interior stairs, while the exit was at the far end, opening onto the exterior stairs which the recruits used. The long room was empty all the way down the center, with rows of bunks and open lockers on either side, and windows all the way along each wall, behind the bunks.
I was alone on security watch in the compartment, the division had gone to chow. Early evening, but still daylight in the Florida winter. I was checking the window latches, as the company commanders were known to undo one or two to check if we were being diligent. I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye, a flash of white shoes down the middle of the empty compartment. Huh. Our division was already wearing black oxfords, only the newest recruits wore the initially issued white tennis shoes. Someone must be lost, and got into the wrong compartment. I had just checked the inside doors, so that was odd.
I walked between the bunks and across from me, up a few racks, was a girl in utilities, white shoes, and curly dark hair. And then she was not there. I stood still for a moment, scanning the compartment. She could not have gone anywhere I couldn’t see. Not under the racks as they were raised up with nothing under them, and since we were in the center, I would have seen any movement toward either set of doors. Nothing. I walked both set of racks, looking around each bunk, then checked the laundry room and head. I pretty much spent the next hour or so in the office.
Just one week later, a girl in the compartment above us tried to commit suicide. We knew because our company commander had watch that evening, quite upset as she stopped the attempt (details are gory). I have no idea if that was related or not, but it scared the crap out of me.
Years later, sitting around BSing with shipmates, another girl who had come through Orlando after me told a story about finding the same set of white tennis shoes repeatedly in the same dryer each time they passed through an empty compartment on roving watch. They would set them out on the exterior landing and lock the door, but an hour later on the next security check, the shoes would be back in the dryer. The compartment was locked as there was no division assigned to it, no one had access except them and the officer on watch on the quarterdeck. We figured out that was in the same compartment where I had seen my girl in white shoes, second floor of the west wing on the building closest to the far fences . Yeah. That doesn’t bother me.
My mom had several dream stories about people she knew that had been murdered but I don’t. My story is pretty tame compared to the above posts. When I was 15 it was late and I was alone in our house. A house deep in the woods and far from any neighbors, I might add. My parents were spending the night in a hotel for their anniversary, so it was just me. I was reading a book and had a movie on for noise. Suddenly, the rocking chair across from me rocked, just once and stopped. There were no drafts to cause this. I was so scared and I knew if I thought about it, I’d be freaking out. So I put this memory in a box and I didn’t remember it until years later. Hence, my first and only repressed memory happened (that I know of).
@Tam Dixon – that is hella scary, I’m reading all of these even tho I’m a scaredy cat. I think rocking chairs scare me because of the Rocking-Horse Winner.
Ooo, I can just picture John Houseman sitting there in the darkness, lit only by the campfire …
I worked at Westminster Abbey gardens for some years and have quite a few stories to tell, some first hand … the disembodied happy whistler, who’d follow you along the darkened, (& up until recently) gaslit Cloisters early winter mornings. Or the angry ‘person’ the other side of the garden door, who’d slam the door on you with such furious force and for a few moments prevent access to the gardens. You could be fooled into thinking it was a gust of wind but there was always the horrible sense of foreboding which made you hesitate before you tried the door handle again.
The best shared experience was when our grand old Victorian greenhouse was to be renovated.
Before work started, us three gardeners obviously discussed what was about to take place during our tea breaks in the potting shed section of the greenhouse. We were obviously a little concerned but knew it was the right thing to do.
At first nothing was said. Why would you? One of us was being annoying, putting hand tools where they didn’t go or just hiding them altogether!
It was the small pile of foreign coins that normally sat by the window but was found laid out in a long line one morning and the smashed tea mugs the following day, that made us realise ….
Tea lights were lit and the Head Gardener had private words with who/whatever was upset, before we headed home. Honestly, everything stopped … until the renovation team arrived.
Yep, their tools started to go missing and then be found elsewhere. They laughed when we told them our experiences and our solution. Nah, they didn’t believe us.
Then came the day when the reinforced greenhouse glass was to be put back. That morning every pane of glass they worked with broke. It slipped off attachment clips and smashed onto the ground, edges snapped off, or panes just broke in their hands – we’re talking experienced restorers here with toughened glass. They were so spooked!
They gladly took the tea lights and matches.
We came back after lunch to find them smiling. The work was proceeding at a great pace and all went well after that.
The event following took place a number of years ago, and what makes this story so scary is that.. it’s actually true.
For a number of years, during the Summer I went with the Duke of Edinburgh Program group of students that my brother and several other teachers were coordinating. They were great to work with and it was always a great time. One summer, while camping at the Dolly Copp Campground in the White Mountain National Forest in New Hampshire, after returning from the day’s hiking and getting ready for dinner, one of the girls that were in the group just stopped and froze, looking off into the woods adjacent to the campsite. Now, this girl was very level-headed and not given to flights of fancy or imagination. When someone finally noticed and interrupted her, she startled and said, “Did you see that man standing at the edge of the campsite?” When, in fact, there was no one standing there that we could see.
Looking again, the girl said that the man seemed to have disappeared. We all thought she surely must have been mistaken and that it was perhaps just her being tired from the activity of the day.
Anyway the following day, after walking through the woods in the same area of the campground to visit a nearby stream, we noticed a very small plaque on one of the trees on the way back to the campsite, facing AWAY from the campsite where it would not typically be seen. It was a memorial plaque for some fellow with nothing but the name and the date of his passing, several years before.
Having only this information to go on, we asked the campground staff if they had ever heard of the person. It turns out that he was a UFOlogist, who along with a companion, had stayed at the campground with a plan to visit the summit of Mt. Washington by night (to spot UFOs, I’m guessing). As it turned out, because of the coldness of the night they had brought gas powered heater into their tent and, sadly, asphyxiated in their sleep. And what campsite had they been in? The very one where we were staying!
An article related to this:
I had a few instances of déjà vu decades ago. The most memorable occurred during a trip to Spain in 1972 (my first trip to Europe). While attending a bullfight, I realized I had dreamed the same scene months earlier, BEFORE the trip was even proposed!
I still dream vividly, but no later dèjá vu experiences come to mind.
I don’t follow sports, so would someone please explain the punch line of Joe’s story? Were the 49ers a consistently losing team back then?
In the year before her passing, my mother-in-law “saw” her late husband a few times.
I’m not sure what it was for sure, but a while back I remember seeing a bright white textured orb at night. I don’t remember the room going cold or feeling afraid. It didn’t bother me at all. It was just one of those things that stays with you. I only ever saw it once and as said I can’t even put an explanation to it as it went away as quickly as it came. It did make me believe there’s something beyond death.
You see stories about people capturing orbs in photos, but seeing a proper one in person is something else.
My friend, Mary and I used to be “ghosthunters”. We made quite a few television appearances and went out on “cases” every night for years. Mary had been seeing spirits since she was a little girl. When she was five her best friend was a girl named Melissa who was always soaking wet. Turns out Melissa was the name of the girl who drowned in the pool two doors down many years earlier. So Mary continued to speak with “the dead” whenever she encountered them, and sought out their family and friends to deliver messages to. As it turned out, she’d been communicating with demons the whole time and just a few years ago, after a lifetime of chasing what she thought were human spirits, she wound up under full blown demonic possession.
I once had a premonition that my then boss was about to chew me out for asking if he’d seen the fax I’d put in his inbox; he was enraged that I hadn’t told him sooner, even though he’d literally just walked in the door and as he yelled there’d been a ridiculously large jug of juice on his desk.
The instant I saw that big jug of grape juice on his desk it triggered the premonition. I asked “did you just buy that?” When he said yes in a cranky way I just walked out and was spared a scream fit.
I once told the new receptionist at work that I was sad to see him go. He was horrified, and I realized it was just deja vu. I told him my deja vu was that he’d been fired for not being helpful on the phone to a VIP. A few hours later a lady called and wanted turn by turn directions from her home an hour away to our office, she was surly but he gamely found the info she needed and never lost his patience because of that premonition. She turned out to be a big wig friend of the company president. I wish I could win the lottery with cool premonitions but my deja vu is weird and silly, so I just ignore it.