His Ghostly Presence in the Mirror: Using Creative Writing to Document Paranormal Encounters

Lavavoth | Hans in the Mirror | Digital Collage/Illustration | © 2021 Lavavoth Stuart

Creative Writing as a Pathway to Unconventional Research Methodologies

The topic of my dissertation is unlike anything I’ve found in ProQuest, the primary research database where most dissertations are catalogued. That said, I’ve come across a few standout dissertations that will contribute valuable references and inspiration to my work. My research methodology is multimethod. At this stage, I plan to incorporate arts-based research (ABR), fiction-based research (FBR), and Poetic Inquiry—all situated within the framework of a transpersonal autoethnography. In essence, this means I’m using my lived experiences with Hans, along with my creative practices, as central components of the research process.

The following passage is a revised excerpt from my illustrated novel Blind Love. As I begin the preliminary stages of writing what will eventually become my dissertation, Blind Love has emerged as a rich source of creative material that will inform key aspects of my doctoral research.

Excerpt from Chapter 9, Warrior of Peace, Blind Love (2017; Edited, 2021)

From an unsuspecting space, tethered like a suspended object between two worlds, Hans materialized. His face came through as shadows and highlights on the wall, then idly coalesced.

My love for interior spaces guided the process of pointing and shooting my camera at all intersecting angles. With my senses revved up on Daguerreotypes and steel sconces, an unpredictable union between the old and the new emerged in the most peculiar spaces. I worked my way upstairs and entered the bathroom.

I snapped a photo of a framed self-portrait drawing from an artist of the old days, then turned the camera toward my reflection in the mirror. The faucet curved upwards out of the stone like a chrome neck of a swan. Consumed by the details, an eerie feeling enveloped me as a tingling vibration gently moved across my back.

I stood erect, peering through the viewfinder aimed at my reflection in the mirror, safeguarding myself with each layer of indirect observation. I closed my eyes as I sensed him. “You’re here,” I said, scanning the room from the mirror.

With this acknowledgment, my awareness unfurled. From an unsuspecting space, tethered like a suspended object between two worlds, Winter materialized. His face came through as shadows and highlights on the wall, then idly coalesced. His unhurried appearance allowed me to stay composed, taking in the presence of his mysterious splendor.

“I see you,” I said with unwavering eyes. “You’re in semi-profile—your blond hair’s sweptback—you’re thin—taller than me,” I said, waiting for him to confirm my perceptions.

I stopped talking and took him in, peering into his unblinking stare that was pushed half shut by the subtle, upward curve of his temperate smile. I stopped breathing, concerned that if I moved in the slightest way, he’d disappear like a diffracted image in a hologram. A crow flew past the window, catching his attention.

He furrowed his eyebrows as if wondering, “Is this really happening,” uncertain of where he was. He blended back into the iridescent tulip-filled wallpaper, trapping him into the endless loop of its repetitive pattern.

The slowness of his disappearance underscored the incomprehensible moment—the magic that persists undetected in the unremarkable corners of a room—that rare and inexplicable wonderment—a love that soldiers on then set ablaze by a hesitant departure.

Narrating the Uncanny: Fiction as a Vessel for Paranormal Experience

Let’s face it—writing about personal or paranormal experiences, especially on public platforms like websites, forums, or social media, is a risky endeavor. In today’s digital landscape, where surveillance and trolling are common, anything shared can be accessed by anyone—including colleagues, employers, or potential employers.

That’s one of the main reasons it took me so long to share my own paranormal experiences online. I feared professional fallout. Like many of you, I had a lot to lose. The possibility that a colleague or employer might discover these accounts was a constant source of anxiety—something I wrestled with for years, and the reason I write under the name Lavavoth.

Blind Love became the perfect vehicle for giving voice to my paranormal experiences—without triggering any dramatic consequences—because it was framed as fiction. Beneath the surface of its chaotic, dystopian plot, I was emotionally, historically, and psychologically processing Hans’s past life in Germany, as well as my own.

Navigating not only a paranormal reality but also the aftermath of a past-life death in Nazi Germany, I found that approaching such disturbing material through a creative lens made it more manageable—safer to explore, and safer to share.

Transforming Lived Experience Through Creative Practice

Creative writing allows us to approach our experiences through the act of descriptive embellishment. This approach is useful in two ways:

1. Have Fun—and Don’t Tell, Show

Creative writing gives you the freedom to get playful with your story. It invites you to engage the reader with personal experiences shaped through fiction. If you’ve ever taken a creative writing course, you’ve likely heard the advice: don’t tell—show. Think of what you’ve experienced, then write in a way that is vivid, descriptive, and emotionally resonant.

Sifting Truth from Fiction

The excerpt at the beginning of this blog post offers a creative retelling of the second time I saw Hans as a full-body apparition (as depicted in Blind Love through the character Winter), though the way I framed it makes it appear as if it were our first encounter.

It’s true that I saw Hans in the mirror—but not as corporeally as described. And I wasn’t doing a photoshoot of my house. I added that detail because the protagonist, Nyx, in Blind Love is passionate about photography, and the accompanying illustration of her capturing Hans (Winter) in the mirror added visual interest.

His thin, 5’10” frame stood in semi-profile, revealing a heart-shaped face and swept-back hair.

The actual experience of seeing Hans was not as dramatic—though still mind-blowing. It happened on a fall afternoon in 2010. I was in the bathroom, standing at the sink, washing my hands in front of a large mirror when Hans “idly coalesced” behind me. He appeared mostly in shadow form. While I couldn’t clearly make out all the features of his face, my clairvoyance allowed me to perceive what was physically missing.

Despite his shadowed form, Hans’s presence would have been perceptible to anyone. His thin, 5’10” frame stood in semi-profile, revealing a heart-shaped face and swept-back hair [1].

To make the moment work in Blind Love—to fully convey the experience of witnessing a spirit manifestation—I made his appearance more physical and detailed in the story. This creative adjustment helps readers engage with the event in a way that is vivid and immersive.

“Inspired by True Accounts”: Give Yourself Permission

The point here is simple—you have to give yourself permission to tell your story in a way that feels interesting, engaging, and safe. Framing your work as “inspired by true accounts” signals to readers that while the story draws from real events, you’ve taken creative liberties in how people, places, and experiences are portrayed.

Using creativity to process difficult or complex experiences can be deeply cathartic and rewarding.

2. Creative Writing Offers a Level of Safety When Disclosing Personal or Difficult Material

If you’re interested in writing about your experiences, consider using fiction as a way to share the more personal aspects of your life. This approach isn’t just for those navigating the paranormal. Some personal stories may not be appropriate to share openly. Others may involve trauma or include details that could implicate or expose people close to you.

That’s one of the reasons creative writing is so powerful—it creates a safe distance from which to process and express your lived experiences, no matter what they involve.

Confessional Writing and the Risk of Professional Fallout

Think about it—how forthcoming would you be about cohabitating with a ghost?

As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, it took me ten years to finally say, “Fuck it, I’m telling my story.” But before I could make that declaration, I needed a safety net. I had to build alternative forms of financial support before eventually leaving behind a 15+ year career in education and the nonprofit sector to follow my creative voice and honor my connection with Hans [2].

That decision deserves its own blog post. It involved extensive planning, reflection, and a slow process of growing into my courage. It wasn’t impulsive, and it wasn’t easy. It took years to fully commit to a new path—and to face the uncertainty that still lingers. I don’t know yet whether this choice will have negative consequences in the long run. What I do know is that I could no longer ignore Hans or my intuition.

If you’re still relying on traditional employment—or if you love your day job and have no intention of leaving—it doesn’t mean you have to stay silent. Creative writing offers one of the best ways to share your story without jeopardizing your livelihood or personal privacy.

Get It Off Your Chest

Sometimes, there’s a pull you can’t ignore—a persistent inner yearning that won’t quiet down until you engage with it creatively. Using creativity to process difficult or complex experiences can be deeply cathartic and rewarding. It’s not always about sharing your story with others. Often, simply writing or illustrating it for yourself is enough. By bringing awareness to the experience and honoring your need for expression, you can release the weight it carries.

Community Connection Through the Act of Sharing

There are also meaningful benefits to sharing your story with others, when it feels safe to do so. Publicly disclosing your experiences can lead to unexpected connections with those who’ve had similar encounters. In doing so, you help cultivate a kindred community—one that reminds you that, no matter how strange or difficult your story may be, you’re not alone. Your voice, in its uniqueness, may also inspire others to come forward with stories of their own.

The Risk of Losing Friends and Family

Living with ghosts isn’t easy. At times, it can feel incredibly lonely and isolating. It’s a significant part of my daily life, yet one I often have to keep hidden. Yes, I’m sharing my story here and on social media, but when it comes to neighbors, friends, and family, I rarely mention my website—unless I trust them deeply. And even then, it can still backfire.

The risk of losing loved ones over sensitive disclosures is very real. I’ve lost friends and family because I shared my experiences with Hans. Looking back, I wish I had been more cautious in the beginning—more discerning about who I let in. Knowing what I know now, I would have shared more slowly, with greater care.

Keep a Journal

If you're still unsure about creatively writing or sharing your experiences with others, consider keeping a journal. Journaling has been widely recognized for its healing effects. It offers a private, judgment-free space to release what’s on your chest without the pressure of an audience.

Journaling also allows you to revisit past entries—to reflect on your growth, recall important details, or even spark ideas for future creative projects. It’s a safe and personal outlet, free from concerns about typos, grammar, or structure.

So however you choose to write about your experiences—just write.

Notes

[1] Over the years, Hans has materialized often, though usually in fragments. For many months, he would only manifest his eyes—picture a pair of skinless, floating eyes, corporeal enough to make out the pupils, irises, and lid folds, yet transparent enough to see the space behind them. Once, He appeared on my bed, lying on his side, facing me—glowing white, in uniform, his face blurred out, his platinum blond hair strikingly visible. At other times, he’s shown up in shadow form, with his heart-shaped face emerging in clear detail. Ghosts are weird.

[2] I’ve actually returned to my day job in education—another reason I use the name Lavavoth.