Messenger Between Worlds Read online

  About the Author

  Kristy Robinett is a world-renowned revolutionary psychic medium and author of Ghosts of Southeast Michigan: Michigan’s Haunting Legends and Lore and the Higher Intuitions Oracle deck. She specializes in bringing humor to what most people fear and inspires all ages to ignite the light within them so that the fire of inspiration continues on. It’s Kristy’s down-to-earth style, honesty, sense of humor, and warmth that makes her a sought-out coach and speaker.

  Kristy has been profiled on many radio programs, including Coast to Coast AM, and several television shows. She’s read for a blushing clientele of who’s who in Hollywood along with law enforcement, clergy, politicians, physicians, attorneys, domestic goddesses, local celebrities, and everybody else in between.

  Kristy is a wife and mom to four children and many animals. She loves glitter, fuzzy socks, ice cream, and hugs. Visit www.tangledwishes.com to view upcoming events or to contact Kristy for a session.

  Llewellyn Publications

  Woodbury, Minnesota

  Copyright Information

  Messenger Between Worlds: True Stories from a Psychic Medium © 2013 by Kristy Robinett.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Llewellyn Publications, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this e-book, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  First e-book edition © 2013

  E-book ISBN: 9780738737270

  Book design by Bob Gaul

  Cover art © Maarigard/Bigstock.com

  Cover design by Adrienne Zimiga

  Editing by Ed Day

  Llewellyn Publications is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Llewellyn Publications does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Llewellyn Publications

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.llewellyn.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Although this is a work of nonfiction, some names,

  characters, places, and incidents have been changed.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  one: Kids See the Darnedest Things

  two: Guided

  three: The Ghost Cottage

  four: My Guardian

  five: Kept Promises

  six: The Haunting

  seven: Shadows of Darkness

  eight: Watchtower

  nine: Sensitive

  ten: Illusions

  eleven: Letting the Light In

  twelve: The Magnolia Tree

  thirteen: An Angel

  fourteen: A New York Minute

  fifteen: The Bandages

  sixteen: Faithless

  seventeen: True Self

  eighteen: Reset Button

  nineteen: Undercover Psychic

  twenty: Messenger of Death

  twenty-one: Voices

  twenty-two: Amber Rose

  twenty-three: Confessions

  twenty-four: Follow Your Moonstones

  twenty-five: Married to a Medium

  twenty-six: An Epiphany

  twenty-seven: Full Circle

  twenty-eight: Starting Over

  twenty-nine: Embracing My Fears

  thirty: Follow Your Path

  thirty-one: Hope: Full Circle

  thirty-two: Christmas Socks

  thirty-three: Heart to Heart

  thirty-four: With Love

  thirty-five: Sally

  thirty-six: Haunting the Haunted

  thirty-seven: Remember Me

  thirty-eight: Blooming

  thirty-nine: Letting Love In

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  The support that I have received from friends and fans has been overwhelming. Without the constant urging to write a book, this work would probably still be sitting in a dusty file beneath photo albums and other memories. So, I first thank all of you who have pestered me through the years to publish this book.

  I want to thank my husband, Chuck Robinett. With friendship, respect, and love, he has walked beside me through a very interesting and sometimes challenging journey, and I am eternally grateful.

  Thank you to my children, Micaela and Connor, for their strength and constant love.

  Thank you also to my stepdaughters, Cora and Molly, for their acceptance and their love.

  Thank you to Kerry Combs for believing in me and befriending me during your difficult time. I also want to thank the following individuals, without whose contributions and support this book would not have been written: Donna Shorkey, Jenni Licata, Mary Byberg, and Laura Bohlman.

  [contents]

  Introduction

  My mom taught me at a young age to be myself no matter what. Although she was my cheerleader, I didn’t have a strong role model because, ironically, she hadn’t followed her own advice. It would take me more than thirty years to feel comfortable with who I was and the gifts that I was born with. And then there are always lessons to be learned, life tests to be taken, and judgment to dodge.

  Writing this book brought up many painful memories that were buried in my subconscious mind, and yet I found as I listened to my soul’s whispers that I also had begun to heal. The bandages I used to mask myself were becoming weighty and dingy and were starting to unravel, so it was best to remove them rather than put on fresh wrappings to continue disguising my tattered soul.

  We all have skeletons in the closet, and, while not all of them need to be dug up and made to perform, many of them need to be given a proper burial. Messenger Between Worlds is an account of my own very talented chorus line.

  As you may know, I am a psychic medium. It was difficult ignoring what I once referred to as “my personal curse.” When a ghost is adamant about discussing his/her passing and begging for help, it’s a bit like having a pink polka-dotted elephant tap dancing in your living room. You either try to ignore it while everything around you is destroyed, or you learn to embrace it. I have finally done the latter.

  Your personal curse doesn’t have to be the secret of seeing the dead. I claim that as my own! It could be that you want to be a gymnastics teacher instead of an accountant, aspire to be a writer instead of a barista, or dream of having a nurturing relationship instead an abusive one. Maybe you just want to feel rewarded by life. Becoming comfortable with my gift, with myself, has taken an awfully long time, and still when I speak with someone who doesn’t know what I am, I begin: “Now, I’m perfectly sane, but … I see ghosts.” I’m not different from you. Everybody—you, included—has the ability to see; you just have to open yourself to it. I h
ope to give you the same self-acceptance and the ability to see through your own situations so that you can find your way back on the path of life fulfillment.

  Growing up I didn’t go around saying I wanted to be a professional psychic medium. Instead I dreamt of being a prosecuting attorney. It began with my love of true crime novels and anything involving Nancy Drew. I read every single book in order to figure out whodunit. It’s funny how, even though I don’t have the law degree, I still find myself helping with the whodunit!

  Since I was the age of three, spirits have come to me in the dead of night, telling me of their woes. Some stand. Some sit. All have their own story to share. It could be that they have been murdered, are frightened to cross over, or have a message to get to a family member. My nighttimes have always been annoying, to say the least. The continuous line of spirits who stand, single file, next to my bed is reminiscent of the DMV on a Monday morning. If I could only figure out how to affix a “Take a Number” machine to my energy, I’d be all set. It wasn’t until I grew older that I realized I was a counselor to the dead at night and a counselor to the living by day whether I liked it or not. Straddling both worlds is exhausting and exhilarating.

  “Does this happen often?” I evenly asked the middle-aged lady sitting across from me as I ducked the second cobalt blue teacup that sailed past my head. I watched as it fell to the ground without breaking.

  “It started a few weeks ago. He seems to like dishes the best,” Celia responded. “I’ve asked him to throw something softer, but he seems to like dishes the best,” she repeated, ducking a matching plate.

  Her house was a typical 1970s ranch with a family inside to match. I had received the call from Celia asking if I would do a paranormal investigation and a house blessing. She stated that odd things were happening.

  Odd didn’t quite describe it.

  The air in the three-bedroom house was heavy with negative emotion and fear. Part of the fear was, no doubt, coming from me. Even after what feels like umpteen years of doing investigations, I am still in awe at times and still get scared. My husband sat next to me with one eyebrow raised ever so slightly as he looked at the unexplainable chaos. He silently shook his head and gave me a sideways smirk. He married into the crazy life of a psychic medium and has always said he just “came along for the beer,” although neither of us drink anything harder than Diet Pepsi. I don’t need spirits to see spirits.

  I was born with “the gift,” but growing up, it seemed to cause more trouble than it was worth. My father was extremely religious—a well-respected deacon of the Missouri Synod Lutheran church. I was taught from early on that anything ghostly or psychic was of the devil. So, when I saw spirits at the age of three and communicated with them, explaining it wasn’t exactly the kind of heart-to-heart talk I wanted to have with my parents. To be honest, that chat with Dad still hasn’t happened. I confess, I’m not great with confrontation. I kept the gift hidden—sort of. I loved making predictions and sharing them with my friends, especially if I knew there was going to be a pop quiz or that a particular couple was going to break up or get together. When asked how I knew about these things before they happened, I made up lame excuses like it was a lucky guess or I had a feeling. The toughest part of the gift comes with situations like plane crashes or other disasters, and they still have quite an impact on me. When September 11th happened and I had a vision a few days beforehand, I blamed myself for not doing anything other than scribbling some drawings, names, dates, and other miscellaneous things in my journal. If I wasn’t given this gift to help, then why was I given it at all? It’s still a question I often ask myself.

  So, what is a psychic medium? For some, images of flowing gowns, smoldering incense, and airy-sounding women come to mind. Ha! That is so not me. Flowing gowns? I tend to gravitate toward jeans and cute T-shirts. Incense? I just don’t like the smell, but I do burn white sage! And the airy voice? Hmm … my husband may call me an airhead sometimes, but he says it in a loving way! In a nutshell, as a psychic medium, I talk to those who have crossed over to what is sometimes called heaven or the Other Side, along with spirit guides, and I pass along information they give me. It’s different from a psychic, who uses earthly tools (tarot, pendulum, etc.) to foretell the future. Readings with me are never of the cookie-cutter variety. I have a sense of humor, and I like to use it in the readings. I still remember the first time I went for a reading for myself. I was incredibly nervous, convinced that the medium would tell me all bad and nothing good. Instead, I was immediately put at ease by his friendliness and lack of skinned black cats. I felt like I was talking to a friend. That’s how I want my readings to be, and I strive to achieve that with everybody I read. I do, however, take my police work very seriously. Missing persons and murder cases are tough, especially when they deal with children. I’ve had my share of tears working on cases with police and private investigators. And paranormal investigations, although they can be fun, they can also be stressful and dangerous. It isn’t always the ghosts or demons you have to fear, but the living. I’ve had death threats from angry cheating husbands, and I’ve been stalked by killers who thought I knew too much. There’s never a dull moment in my life and for that I am thankful, as I am easily bored. Sometimes I wait to hear “Cut!” from a director and have it all shut off, but my life is real. Sometimes surreal, sure, but still real.

  I love being a psychic medium. I love doing readings, radio, and television. I used to hide, but I’m no longer an undercover psychic medium, just a psychic medium. I will scream it from the rooftop.

  Okay, maybe not. I’m afraid of heights.

  Meanwhile, let’s get back to poor Celia. Remember her? She’s the client we left in the line of cups-and-saucer fire in that three-bedroom ranch house. As it turned out, Celia’s problem was an older gentleman (in spirit form) who had once lived in the house. He was very upset that the family was renovating the kitchen. I had a talk with this stubborn spirit-in-residence, and we made a deal: he’d stop pitching china at Celia if she’d keep the dishes in the same spot that his wife had always kept them—next to the stove instead of next to the sink. Another mystery solved and problem resolved. If only they were all that easy!

  I am the messenger between worlds.

  [contents]

  one

  Kids See the

  Darnedest Things

  I received my first spanking when I was three years old. That might not be unusual, except for the circumstances. Instead of being brought on by a childish temper tantrum, the punishment was for talking to the so-called dead and predicting death.

  My maternal grandmother was coming to visit, and I was entertaining a house full of spirits. My family couldn’t see the spirits, so they disregarded my constant communication with what they labeled “imaginary friends.” They considered me an overly imaginative and creative child, but they didn’t know what was really going on. Or did they? I frustrated my parents to no end with the constant chatter and, on this particular day, things came to a head.

  Just minutes before my mom’s parents, Helen and Grant, arrived, an older spirit appeared, claiming to be my great-grandmother, Helen’s mother. She told me that the angels were coming soon for Grandma Helen, who in retrospect was often quite sickly, but nobody expected her to pass away. The spirit told me that I needed to say my goodbyes and to prepare my mom by letting her know the same. When my grandma came, I shared the information with her and my mom, and refused to let her sit down because the angels were coming. Looking back on this, I’m sure I frightened both of them with the death warning. It wasn’t that I was a malicious child—in fact, I was quiet and shy—but I felt I was doing exactly what I had been asked to do. My mom grew so frustrated with me that she swatted me on my rear.

  I knew that I was different from the beginning of my memory. Spirits would move around me during nighttime. Some of them talked to me, while others were just happy that I could see them, and yet others l
oved to tease and frighten me. I didn’t know that nobody else saw them until I could speak and point them out.

  “Oh look, Kristy has invisible friends!” the family would proclaim in a mocking way. But they weren’t invisible to me—they were as real as my own family standing in front of me was. I couldn’t quite comprehend how and why I was seeing them, and yet, they weren’t.

  Six months later, Grandma Helen unexpectedly passed away and my first prediction came to light.

  “How did you know grandma was going to die?” my mom asked me the morning before the funeral.

  “Each time I saw her, I saw more and more angel feathers around her,” I answered. “And the lady with the worn hands told me.”

  My mom gave me a strange look. “I see death too, Kristy, but I see crows.”

  I was too young to understand what she meant. I should have felt as if I had an ally, but instead I felt confused. One minute my mom was punishing me, and the next she was curious.

  The evening before Grandma Helen’s burial, I sat on the green shag carpet with my pale white legs crossed Indian style, making me look tinier than I already was. I watched as my mom pieced together a sewing project. When my mom was sad, she would either withdraw or sleep for days, or she would keep herself incredibly busy so that she couldn’t think about anything other than the task at hand.

  “Why Kristy?” I pondered out loud, ever curious, but more than that, I needed answers.

  “Why Kristy, what?” she responded, perplexed and a bit short.

  “I don’t understand why you named me Kristy when my name is Sara. And that is Sara without an ‘h’, but everybody always spelled it with an ‘h’!”

  “You don’t like your name?” My mom gave me a strange look. She grabbed a cigarette with her long, lean fingers, lit it, and took a long drag. “You’re named after my favorite book, Christy by Catherine Marshall. Sara was never even on our name list.”