Early one evening I was setting up to relax alone in my room for a bit before turning in for the night. I passed the small entryway into my room and immediately saw a glimpse of someone to my right by my dresser. It was so fleeting to my eyes, but my third eye stamped a fuzzy image of a woman onto my mind. I took a breath and then asked into the open, wintry dark room, “If someone is here with me, please make yourself known to me so that I can communicate with you more clearly.”
An eternity passed, or what felt like it, as I waited with bated breath to hear, feel, see, or know if someone was in my room. Then it came, slowly, as if a fingertip pricked the surface of a still pond. The ghost fuzzies radiated over my right arm and onto my shoulder, up my neck and down my back.
“Hello!” I said surprised. “Please give me a moment to set myself up and then we can talk.”
I set up my chair, started my recording devices, and prepared my divining rods. I took a deep breath and opened myself to my spiritual team and this female spirit – in light and love, in light and love only.
What unfolded was a sad, yet beautiful story of a woman forgotten.
Margaret, or Marge, approached me on the eve of February 9, 2026. First, we confirmed that I saw her. I described her as a woman with shoulder length brown hair. This hair had a little flip at the bottom, dating her. She had on a vertical striped shirt that made me think of 1970s fashion and a pair of beige shorts with it. This was her college self that she was presenting herself as.
After establishing that she was not anyone in my family, I asked her to loudly share her name with me. While it was encouraged to do so on my recorders, I unfortunately discovered no EVPs when reviewing my recordings. I did, though, hear it in my mind. I said to her, “I heard Margaret and I couldn’t see to hear anything else. Is your name Margaret?” Before she could answer, I continued “Is that your middle name? Or like Marge? Did they call you Marge?” She confirmed that this was the case. I additionally confirmed twice that this was her name. Then Marge shared with me her story.
Marge grew up in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. She went to Oshkosh High School – what would become known as Oshkosh High School West. There, she participated in clubs and met her husband, Mark, in Yearbook. Mark drove a very snazzy red car for the era. It had a chrome spoiler on the back. The image that felt the most familiar was a red version of a car from Grease. As we know, spirits try to communicate with images that make sense to us so that we can try to understand them.
After high school, Marge went to the Wisconsin State College in Oshkosh studying education to become a teacher. She would eventually teach at the Omro High School. Marge and Mark lived in Omro, Mark had some sort of desk job – potentially something with accounting. The couple had no children and no pets.
Marge was passionate about her garden around her ranch-style home. It was one of the first things she vividly showed me. It was not only filled with flowers and other garden items, but also little garden trinkets and decorations, like a frog and a stone statue of something I could not quite make out. Marge was part of the gardening club through her local Catholic Church. My research showed there was a Catholic Church in Omro that had something of a club, but that they also did/do gardening and faith outreach. Her garden came up several times during our talk – I saw it in the background, almost as if we were together in her garden talking.
Her husband Mark was a tinkerer. Their basement was done up, but had an area for him to tinker in. He passed away a few years ago, according to our conversation. It was a longer illness – prostate cancer is what I picked up on. He received a great deal of love and care.
Marge passed away a bit after him. She had an aneurysm while at home. I couldn’t tell if she was asleep or somewhere else in the home. Her sister-in-law – a name similar to Jamie, though it was not as clear as Marge’s name – came to check on her and found her.
An obituary was not published. That’s what Marge said and my research turned up. I pressed for more information on this, because I thought for sure her church or someone at her church might have written one. Marge said she was not buried anywhere, implying she was cremated, so there are no grave records for her.
When I asked her if there was a message, besides her story, that she wanted me to pass on to the world in this written piece, she said she wanted everyone to know that she was proud of her job and proud of who she was. A mantra of LOVE, LOVE, LOVE kept coming up – her sending all her love into the world.
At the end, I asked her if she had a happy place to be on the other side. She said she did, but she was not haunting anywhere. Her happy place was her own heaven, where she could come and go from. Marge admitted that she had heard me passionately talking about the problems with obituaries in this modern society and wanted me to write something for her.
My time with her ended with an image of a beautiful, gentle, elderly woman sitting happily in a vibrant and majestic garden, smiling with an aura of love.
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