Open the gates of heaven

Knocking on Heaven’s Door: True Stories of Unexplained, Uncanny Experiences at the Hour of Death

Knocking on the Gates of Heaven: The True Story of a Mysterious Experience about the Incredible Experiences of the Moment of Death

Not Debunked

The father who appears before you in a dream, hours before you find out he’s died. The accident you knew would happen. These tales are real—and collected in Opening Heaven’s Door. Read an excerpt.

You find his father, who appeared in front of you in a dream a few hours before he died. You know accidents happen. These stories are true and collected in opening the doors of heaven. Read the excerpt.

A humid night in summer, no sounds but the incandescent humming of the streetlamp, the tick of an invisible clock on an antique dresser. Ellie Black rouses quietly to consciousness at around 3, her eyes unfocused, mind placid. It’s not time to get up yet; nothing is troubling her sleeping child. There is a smell of August grass and last evening’s cigarettes. In the stillness, a movement at the end of her bed commands her attention. There, amazingly, she sees her father. Why is he here, she wonders, now fully alert, this difficult man from whom she’s so long been estranged? Why here in her bedroom? And what on earth is he wearing? Is that a top hat and tails? Her father gazes back at her happily, tips his hat, and bows with a flourish. He is bidding her—his audience?—some sort of farewell. Then he’s gone. She blinks. Her bedroom reverts to shadow and silence.

The following morning, she related the experience—whatever it was, a waking dream—to her daughter at the breakfast table. My childhood friend Michele remembers the breakfast conversation with her mother clearly, because she was so surprised when the phone rang later that day, bringing news of her grandfather’s demise.

That seeming whisper across the universe, a susurration or hint transmitted by some unknown current the way that birds bend their wings in unison, or ants follow their invisible queen: Humans clearly and repeatedly encounter some kind of unexplained attunement. Research done in Wales, Japan, Australia, and the United States shows that between 40 and 53 percent of the bereaved experience “anomalous cognition” when someone close or connected to them has died. Usually, they sense a presence; sometimes they see or hear one. Psychiatrists call these experiences “grief hallucinations,” although they have not been studied neurologically. We don’t know what to call the intimations—like an estranged father at the foot of the bed, that are our first gleanings of death.

On a damp summer night, there was no sound except the incandescent hum of street lamps and the ticking of an invisible clock on an antique dresser. Ellie Blake woke up quietly around 3 o'clock, her eyes unfocused and her mind calm. Before it was time to get up, there was nothing uncomfortable with her sleeping child. There was a smell of August grass and last night's cigarettes. In the silence, a movement at the head of the bed caught her attention. There, she was surprised to see her father. Why was he here, she thought, now completely alert, to this difficult man who had been estranged from her for so long? Why in her bedroom? What exactly is he wearing? Is that a hat and tail? Her father looked back at her happily, put his hat on, and bowed. He's going to invite her audience? - Some kind of goodbye. Then he was gone. She blinked. Her bedroom was again shadowy and silent. The next morning, she told her daughter at the breakfast table about the experience, whatever it was, an waking dream. My childhood friend Michelle vividly remembers her conversation with her mother at breakfast, because she was so surprised when the phone rang later that day that she brought news of her grandfather's death. It seems to be a cosmic whisper, a sound or hint transmitted by an unknown current, such as the way birds bend their wings in unison, or the way ants follow the invisible queen: humans clearly and repeatedly encounter some kind of unexplained tuning. Studies done in Wales, Japan, Australia and the United States have shown that 40 to 53 per cent of the deceased experience "abnormal cognition" when someone close to them dies. Usually, they feel presence; sometimes they see or hear presence. Psychiatrists call these experiences "hallucinations of grief," though they have not yet been studied by neurology. We don't know what to call these hints, like an estranged father lying under the bed, which is our first clue to death.

They also included rare cases of collective perception they had come upon: For example, a man and his son simultaneously saw the face of the man’s father near the ceiling of their parlor at precisely the time (they later learned) that the father had died. The man’s wife, who was sitting in the same room, had witnessed the reactions and comments of her husband and son, although she did not herself perceive anything unusual. Another instance of shared perception in the late 19th century, investigated by E.M. Sidgwick, involved distress—a storm at sea—rather than death: “Mr. Wilmot and his sister Miss Wilmot,” it was reported, “were on a ship traveling from Liverpool to New York, and for much of the journey they were in a severe storm. More than a week after the storm began, Mrs. Wilmot in Connecticut—worried about the safety of her husband—had an experience while she was awake during the middle of the night, in which she seemed to go to her husband’s stateroom on the ship, where she saw him asleep in the lower berth and another man in the upper berth looking at her. She hesitated, kissed her husband, and left.

“The next morning Mr. Wilmot’s roommate asked him, apparently somewhat indignantly, about the woman who had come into their room during the night. Miss Wilmot [the sister on board] added her testimony, saying that the next morning, before she had seen her brother, the roommate asked her if she had been in to see Mr. Wilmot during the night, and when she replied no, he said that he had seen a woman come into their room in the middle of the night and go to Mr. Wilmot.” This would, of course, have seemed terribly inappropriate in the mid-19th century. A woman in our room? Good heavens. Mrs. Wilmot, back in Connecticut, was equally bothered by the impropriety: “I had a very vivid sense all the day of having visited my husband. I felt much disturbed at his [the man in the upper berth’s] presence, as he leaned over, looking at us.” Still, the experience or dream or whatever it was seems to have moved her. “The impression was so strong that I felt unusually happy and refreshed.”

They also found some rare cases of collective perception: for example, a man and his son simultaneously saw his father's face near the ceiling of their living room, which was the time (they later learned) the father's death. The wife, who was sitting in the same room, witnessed the reactions and comments of her husband and son, although she herself did not perceive anything unusual. At the end of the 19th century, an example of another common view investigated by E.M. Sidgwick involved the dilemma — a storm at sea rather than death: "Mr. Wilmot and his sister Miss Wilmot were reportedly on a ship from Liverpool to New York, and for most of their journey, they both suffered a severe storm. More than a week after the storm began, Mrs. Wilmot, who was worried about her husband's safety in Connecticut, had an experience when she woke up in the middle of the night as if she had gone to her husband's first-class cabin on the ship, where she saw him asleep on the lower bunk, where another man on the upper bunk was watching her. She hesitated, kissed her husband, and left. The next morning, Mr. Wilmot's roommate, apparently somewhat indignant, asked him about the woman who had entered their room that night. Miss Wilmot (sister on board) added her testimony by saying that the next morning, before she met her brother, her roommate asked her if she had come to see Mr. Wilmot in the evening, and when she replied no, he said he had seen a woman enter their room in the middle of the night to find Mr. Wilmot, which seemed very inappropriate in the mid-19th century. Is there a woman in our room? Oh, my God. Mrs. Wilmot, who returned to Connecticut, was equally troubled by this misconduct: "I had a very vivid feeling all day that I had visited my husband. As he leaned over to look at us, I was very disturbed by his (the man on the top bunk) presence, "nevertheless, the experience, the dream, or anything else seemed to have touched her." "I was very impressed, and I felt unusually happy and refreshed."