Cover design by AriOwl.
When my husband and I were first married, and frankly I don't even remember how it happened, we became friends with a Kiowa Medicine Man. His Kiowa name was Little Hawk.
Little Hawk and his wife invited us to a traditional healing ceremony and sweat lodge. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think most Native American healing ceremonies incorporate a sweat lodge.
This experience was intense, unlike anything I'd done before. It involved inducing a trance-like state, chanting, special mixtures of wet earth and clay painted on our bodies and finally the sweat lodge.
Don't envision a sweat lodge as a steam room or a sauna. We're talking a real life sweat lodge - like a beaver lodge, buried in dirt, covered in plastic and buffalo hides.
You have to crawl in through the small entrance. It's totally dark inside except for the light cast by the red-hot stones. You sit around the super heated stones, very close to the super heated stones, while the Medicine Man chants and I believe it was his wife who poured water from a gourd onto the super heated stones causing super heated steam.
To be honest, I can't remember everything about the experience. I guess I was in kind of a dream state.
When it was done we felt reborn, which I believe is the point-- cleansed, totally cleansed of all negative energy and thoughts. We felt whole and healthy and that's about as much as I can put into words.
Anyway, when the ceremony was finished and we'd given thanks to the Great Father and scattered cornmeal to the Four Sacred Directions, Little Hawk told us our spirits - those of us who had participated in the ceremony and sweat lodge - would always be connected.
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Our family had already moved several times before we moved to Utah. I remember before our move to Arizona, which came before the move to Utah, I was carrying a box of glassware up from the basement when the bottom of the box tore. All the glassware spilled down the stairs and shattered.
As I stood there staring at a million pieces of glass, my phone rang. It was Little Hawk. He asked, "What just happened? I heard a crash."
Here we go.
So there I stood in the hallway of this horrible haunted house in Utah, having just chased an evil ghost, who wanted me to kill myself, from my bedroom. I hadn't spoken with Little Hawk in three years but I knew he was the man for the job. If anyone could take on this spirit and beat his ass, it was Little Hawk.
I called him. I swear I barely had to say two words. He understood immediately.
Here's what he said - "Pack up your children and your dog and leave the house tonight. Stay away for two days. Return on the morning of the third day. I will take care of this."
I said, "Thank you."
Little Hawk lived 800 miles away but I had total faith in him. I knew he would help us. I found a motel with a kitchenette. They didn't allow dogs but I sneaked the dog in anyway. I called my husband to let him know where I would be, packed a couple bags and took off.
We spent three nights in the motel and for the first time in nearly three months we all slept soundly. It was just a cheap motel but to me it was heaven.
On the morning of the third day I dropped my son off at school, took my 3 year old to her preschool and headed back to the house. I asked my neighbor, Pat, to watch the baby, and I left the dog in the car.
I entered the house-- no idea what I would find. Everything had changed. The very air had been altered. The house was filled with light and positive energy.
Little Hawk had done it. He'd done it, by god.
The ghost was still there but he'd been humbled, cowed.
From that day on he no longer troubled us. He kept to two rooms, his weird storage room and the cavernous workshop. He never again bothered anyone, not the dog, not the kids, not me. The ghost gave us a wide berth.
While it's true Little Hawk couldn't remake a poorly designed house, now we pretty much had the run of it. My kids went back to their bedrooms, my baby went back to her crib. The dog went wherever she pleased-- except she stayed away from the workshop. There was the occasional raising and lowering of the garage door and the odd toilet flushing-- both of which diminished over time and eventually stopped altogether, but there were no more freaking appearances, moving furniture, ghostly tantrums, flipping light switches, no more running up and down the stairs dragging chains...
It was beautiful, just beautiful.
I called Little Hawk and thanked him. I didn't ask how he'd done it because I knew whatever he'd done was beyond my ken.
He said, "He's a very bad man but you don't have to be afraid. He won't bother you again."
He never did.
I tossed cornmeal to the Four Sacred Directions and thanked the Great Father.
When we finally bought a home and moved away, the ghost stood in one of those front windows and watched us load the car. He seemed sad. I was worried he'd become attached and try to hitch a ride with us, but he didn't.
So, that's my story.
The End.
R.I.P. Little Hawk.
Tomorrow - Final Thoughts
