‘Medium tells me deeply personal things no one knows - and I am left feeling at peace’

This week, an encounter with a medium moves columnist Melissa Todd to tears - and leaves her feeling at peace...

What do you imagine happens when you die? Perhaps you prefer not to think about it. My first husband told me he thought death was like a computer powering down. But plenty feel our essence continues in some form.



I saw my first dead body last year, against my will, and found, just as everyone says, the person had gone: there’s only a shell left, a weird waxy copy of the one you loved. Nothing to fear. Nothing even to see.

This week I went to meet Tracy May, the ‘comedian medium’ who offers spiritual parties and regular psychic shows which sell out months in advance. I warmed to her instantly. Tracy has a loud laugh, a filthy sense of humour, and a penchant for gin.

Over a couple of hours we revelled in both kinds of spirits as I quizzed her. “I was seven when I encountered my first spirit,” she tells me. “There were a lot of arguments happening in my house, lots of shouting, and when I found a nun sitting on the edge of bed, I immediately felt calmer.

She would talk to me, teach me to block out the noise and negativity. She was the first, but there were many others. I would try to hide my new friends when I heard my parents approach: ‘Quick, get in the wardrobe, someone might see you!’ Gradually I realised they couldn’t.

Only I could. “In my twenties I started helping out at a spiritualist church, taking notes while more experienced people did readings, scribbling down their impressions and insights. I noticed that my handwriting would change as different spirits came through, and their loved ones would recognise it.

Then people would write letters to their long-gone relatives, give them to me, and I would channel their spirits and write a reply, in their writing, using the exact phrases and pet names they told me. It made lots of people incredibly happy. “One day, a friend told me how her recently deceased uncle had abused her as a child.

It had ruined her life, her childhood, all her relationships; she always hoped she’d one day find the courage to confront him, and now she’d lost her chance. As she spoke, the lights in my kitchen started to dim, and I felt my body being taken over, a cold creepy feeling flooding my skin. I bowed my head, starting twisting my fingers nervously in my lap.

Startled, Anita gazed at me. “Tracy! Tracy? He’s - he’s here, isn't he? Brian. It’s you Brian, isn’t it?” “I felt myself nod.

Anita began to scream abuse in my direction, every filthy word she knew, at the top of the lungs. “You dirty, disgusting pervert! How could you, how could you? I was a young child! You stole my childhood from me. I’ve never been able to enjoy a relationship.

I couldn’t breastfeed my own children. Was it worth it? Tell me! Was it worth it?” “I sat, cowering and silent. Brian had nothing to say to her, but he wanted to hear what she had to say.

Shame and horror overwhelmed me as she carried on. “I’m glad you’re dead. You were a blight on my life and a blight on the world.

Good riddance. In fact, why don’t you just **** off!! NOW!” “And he did. The lights came up.

I felt him leave my body and the room. “Since then I’ve helped lots of people. I’m called into haunted houses, do ghost walks round my hometown of Faversham, you can hear them on Mixcloud.

..” Nervous, I ask if Tracy can feel anyone coming through for me.

“Just, you know, for the purposes of the column...

I thought it might make for a fun conclusion...

” I’m not nervous about summoning the dead; I’m nervous I might cry in public. Tracy frowns. “There was a woman earlier.

.. oh yes, now she’s back.

.. she stands on your left.

” And she describes my mum. Now, my life is an open book, regularly exploited for journalistic purposes, but Tracy tells me things no one knows: things I haven’t thought about for 30 years. The necklace my mum and I chose together for my 12th birthday; her curler basket; her favourite scarf.

Briefly she becomes my gran before my eyes, replicating precisely her body language and tone of voice, and begins haranguing me for wasting my time, filling my days with meaningless nonsense, when I should be diligently writing my novel. Tracy describes what I’d been writing about just before I came to meet her, which no one knew but me and my editor. And last, my mum thinks I should take better care of my hands, and also that I may have an iron deficiency and should eat more greens.

This is so exactly what my mum would have said, given the chance to come back from the dead, that I do cry. A week on I am eating more greens, using more hand cream and feeling more at peace. Objective truth doesn’t matter: the stories people need to hear do.

Thank you, Tracy May. You can contact Tracy May via her Instagram page, @tracy_comedianmedium, or find her on Facebook by searching for Spiritual Airwaves..