The Feeling Before Something Happens

In paranormal investigations, there is something that happens before anything is seen, heard, or captured. It is subtle, but once you recognize it, you cannot ignore it. It is the feeling before something happens.

We often talk about evidence. What was recorded. What responded. What made itself known. But in my experience, the most important moment comes before any of that.

It is quieter.

More understated.

And often more revealing.

There is a shift.

Prefer to listen? This Field Notes entry is available as an audio recording below.

The air feels different, even if nothing in the room has changed. Your body reacts before your mind has time to understand why. It is not always dramatic. Sometimes it is barely noticeable. A pause. A stillness. A weight that was not there a moment before.

Or, in some cases, the unmistakable sense that you are no longer alone.

I have come to trust that feeling.

Not as proof, but as awareness.

There have been times when we have entered a space and nothing outwardly has happened. No immediate responses. No clear signs of activity. But beneath that stillness, there is something present. An undercurrent that suggests the space is not empty.

And there have been other times when the opposite is true. A location known for activity, for stories, for encounters, and yet when you step inside, there is nothing.

No shift.

No response.

No feeling at all.

And that absence can be just as telling.

It has made me realize that what we feel is often the first layer of understanding. Before we set up the equipment. Before we begin asking questions. There is a moment where your body registers something your eyes cannot yet see.

A kind of knowing.

It is not something I can fully explain, and I am careful not to overstate it. But it is something I have learned to pay attention to. Especially in places where history runs deep and emotions have had time to settle into the walls.

In Macon, Georgia, that history is everywhere.

Homes, theaters, churches, spaces that have held generations of life, joy, loss, and everything in between. When you step into those places, you are not just entering a structure. You are stepping into everything that has happened there.

Sometimes that presence feels warm.

Familiar.

Almost welcoming.

And sometimes, it does not.

What I find most fascinating is how the body responds before the mind catches up. A tightening in the chest. A subtle hesitation. A sense that something is different, even if you cannot yet name it.

It is not fear.

It is awareness.

And there is a difference.

Fear demands reaction. It pushes you to leave, to retreat, to protect yourself.

Awareness asks something else.

It asks you to slow down.

To listen.

To notice.

This is something I have come to understand more deeply through working alongside Morrighan Lynne. While she perceives things in a way that is far more direct, I have learned that there are other ways of recognizing what is present. And more often than not, those initial impressions align with what she later confirms.

That has changed how I approach every investigation.

Before the equipment is set.

Before the questions begin.

Before anything happens.

Because sometimes, that first moment is the most honest one.

Before expectation.

Before influence.

Before interpretation.

Just a quiet recognition that something is there.

Or that something is not.

And both matter.

As we continue to investigate locations throughout Macon and beyond, that is something I carry with me. Not just the tools, not just the process, but the willingness to trust that first instinct.

To notice the shift.

To respect it.

And to understand that sometimes, the feeling before something happens tells you more than anything that comes after.