Messages from beyond

Love from above

Fate and Fortune

Most people have wondered at one point or another, what happens when you die? Or, where you go after you die?

I had a lifelong belief that whether you go to heaven, or some great big beyond, that there was definitely life after death, and after your soul leaves your body, you find yourself on another plane of existence. Of course, I had no proof, only my own belief system.

But when my aunty died after a drawn out battle with breast cancer which had metastasised to her bone marrow, I stayed up all night distraught. In the midst of my grief, I said out loud: ‘If you can hear me Elina, give me a sign. I’m not going to be afraid of you.’

The next morning, as her funeral was taking place thousands of miles away in Iran, Elina’s spirit came to me. I saw her ghost in my bedroom and it brought me so much comfort. I wrote about my ghost encounter for spiritual magazine, Fate and Fortune. It’s on the right, in the lineup pictured below.

For screenreader friendly text (extended version), scroll down past the images.

by Punteha van Terheyden

Reaching for my mum Ellie’s phone across the table in Nando’s, I lied, ‘my battery is running out. Can I borrow yours for a minute?’

‘Sure,’ she said, handing it over.

Her younger sister Elina, 51, was in hospital in Iran, and she was in a terrible way. The breast cancer we all thought she’d conquered was back with a vengeance after five years in remission, and had spread to her her bones and liver.

For the last two weeks, a strange churning in my gut had signalled the day Elina would die: Tuesday 31 January 2012.

My dad, Majid, worked in the Netherlands and I’d confided in him about my spooky prediction. ‘Please come home,’ I’d told him. ‘I can’t handle this on my own.’ But he said, ‘Don’t be silly. How could you possible know that?’

Now the date I’d been dreading was on us, and I didn’t want mum to be the one to answer the phone, or be at home when the call I was certain would come finally did, so I’d persuaded her to go out for lunch.

I felt silly, as there was no escaping what I felt sure was about to happen. The only thing I could do was keep Mum out of the house and her phone in my hands.

I was recovering from surgery so I was in pain, but I stayed out as long as I could bear.

Our phones were quiet all day and when we returned home at 7pm, I began to think my sixth sense had been wrong.

I went upstairs to lie down. Just as I flopped into bed, the landline rang. Mum answered, there was a moment’s silence, followed by a scream.

Elina was gone, leaving behind her three children, Aryan, 18, Shaghayegh, 8, and Shabnam 7.

The next few hours passed in a blur of unbearable grief. Mum was inconsolable.

I rang Dad now and said, ‘I told you.’

He was speechless.

That night, exhausted and drained, I got into bed at 11pm. But at 2am I was still wide awake.

I went to my window and looked outside, where a beautifully crisp layer of snow had covered everything in sight. Out loud, I spoke into the night.

‘Elina, if you can hear me, if you’re here, please give me a sign. Tell me you’re OK. I can take it. I won’t be scared, I promise.’

As is tradition in Iran, Elina’s funeral was due to take place in a few short hours.

I must had drifted off because when my eyes flew open, it was 7am.

I pictured my relatives in Iran about to lower Elina’s body into the ground and I felt despair.

Suddenly, a familiar husky, playful voice behind me said, ‘Good morning.’

It was Elina.

If my limbs weren’t already paralysed, I would have jumped out of bed, but an invisible force kept me locked in place.

As I lay on my side unable to move an inch, my heart raced and the blood roared in my ears.

It felt like the whole room was filled with Elina’s presence.

My mind began to fill with flashing memories of all the many weeks and months I’d spent in Elina’s home over the years. The sleepovers with my cousins, and Elina coming in at 2am with scrambled eggs and freshly baked flatbreads for us all, the words, ‘Good morning,’ tumbling out of her mouth through a knowing smile.

She was never one for rules, letting us stay up all night. I’d always felt able to talk to her about anything.

Focusing back on the clock, I realised ten minutes had passed. I hadn’t been able to move or speak that entire time, but I could still feel Elina standing behind me, just out of sight.

I focused all my energy onto my throat, willing my vocal cords to work as I silently thought, ‘Elina, I can handle this. Let me go.’

Suddenly, the spell was broken and I jumped out of bed. With my back to the far wall, I spun around.

There, sitting in my bed was Elina. She was wearing a burgundy t-shirt, her hair silvery and short - just growing back from the final failed round of weeks before - and she had the most serene look on her face. We looked at each other for what felt like an eternity. Understanding. Knowing. Our final goodbye.

Then she pushed her legs under my duvet, lay flat and pulled the cover up and over her head.

Suddenly, the lump under the duvet was gone and just like that, Elina was gone.

I rushed next door to tell my mum what I’d seen but I knew if I did, she’d be too frightened to be alone in our house ever again. I kept my visit from Elina a secret.

Over the next few days, Mum despaired. ‘Elina was so frightened before she died,’ Mum cried. ‘Frightened of dying, frightened of leaving her kids behind.’

I nodded. Elina had been so frightened, nothing anyone had said could comfort her.

That night, I dreamt I was in a bus flying over the mountains of Tehran where Elina had lived all her life. Across the aisle, Elina was sat, gripping the seat in front.

All around us, the passengers on the bus were turning into blobs of light and flying out of the windows.

She turned to me and said: ‘Was that it? It’s over, just like that?’

I woke up crying, believing she was talking about her life being cut short.

Then a spiritual friend listened to my dream and said: ‘You’re wrong. That’s not what she meant.’

‘What do you mean?’ I replied.

‘Elina meant all the fear, all the worry she’d had about dying had turned out to be pointless. That dying wasn’t the scary experience she’d thought it’d be,’ she said.

It brought me a lot of comfort.

Meanwhile, Mum struggled to cope, far from her family and missing her little sister so much.

One evening she said, ‘All Elina did was work, clean her house and raise her kids.’

I told mum, ‘But that was all Elina wanted.‘

Elina and I had always shared a deep connection. I understood who she was because I was much like her. Wanting nothing more than a successful career and a family to raise.

Mum shook her head, sobbing. She didn’t understand.

Just then all the lights in our house flashed and flickered violently. I knew instantly it was Elina, angry and disagreeing with Mum.

‘See?’ I said. ‘She doesn’t like you saying these things. Don’t reduce her achievements to nothing.’

Mum was stunned.

Weird things continued happening. When Mum and I went to the concert of an Iranian folk group Elina had adored, we checked ourselves in on Facebook. After the show, we realised Elina’s name had somehow been tagged into our post, too.

When our relatives in Iran turned their social media account profile pictures to solid black in mourning, we tried to do the same. But no matter how many times Mum and I tried to do the same, it kept failing.

Instead, I dreamt every night Elina was at a party or dancing at weddings. My mum’s cousins dreamt the same. It was as if Elina was giving us all signs that she was OK.

At my wedding in 2015, Elina walked down the aisle with me as I placed her picture on my bouquet, and when my daughter arrived in 2016, I named her Amelia Elina.

It’s now been eight years since Elina passed and there are still moments I feel her fill the room. My hair stands on end and the air feels heavy.

Elina was loud in life and in the afterlife, she still manages to bulldoze her way into a room. I’ll always miss her but it’s such a comfort knowing she’s checking in on us from time to time.

ENDS