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Praise for Expect the Unexpected
“This book captures the wonder of communication with the afterlife, a wonder felt not just by
the deceased’s families and friends, but also by the mediums themselves. Bill Philipps’s
insiders’ accounts, written with energy and conviction, demonstrate again and again the
maxim of professional mediumship: the dead are always right.”
— JULIA ASSANTE, PHD, author of The Last Frontier
“Expect the Unexpected is a down-to-earth, honest account of how spirits communicate with
Bill Philipps, how he embraced his gift, and how you can learn to recognize the signs our
spirit loved ones use to guide us in our lives.... His sincerity, devotion to the process, and
enthusiasm in spreading knowledge make him a genuine teacher.”
— from the foreword by MAUREEN HANCOCK,
author of The Medium Next Door
“This book not only gives evidence of life after death but also gives a very accurate view of
the struggles a pure psychic medium goes through. Bill Philipps is real, down-to-earth,
humble, and obviously very gifted, and I’m so grateful he wrote this book. Another hundred
pages would still be too short.”
— ECHO BODINE, author of Echoes of the Soul and The Gift
“[Bill] Philipps writes with humility, respect, and compassion. It’s clear that his intent is to
help, not to impress. He speaks, not from a pedestal, but toe-to-toe with the people who seek
his help. Whether or not your customers are convinced about spirit contact, they will find this
book to be a lighthouse on the path to healing and serenity.”
— ANNA JEDRZIEWSKI, Retailing Insight
New World Library
14 Pamaron Way
Novato, California 94949
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, or other — without written permission from the publisher, except by a
reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
The material in this book is intended for education. No expressed or implied guarantee of the effects of the use of the
recommendations can be given nor liability taken. The author’s experiences used as examples throughout this book are true,
although some identifying details such as name and location have been changed to protect the privacy of others.
New World Library is proud to be a Gold Certified Environmentally Responsible Publisher. Publisher certification awarded by Green Press Initiative.
www.greenpressinitiative.org
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my mother, Yvonne,
who taught me that our light
can never be extinguished
CONTENTS
B ill Philipps is both a psychic medium and spiritual teacher. He realized in his younger
years — as I had realized about myself — that he was different and possessed an
uncanny ability to see, feel, and hear spirits. Having experienced a heart-wrenching and
harrowing path through childhood, Bill shares his journey from the depths of darkness to
healing, and to understanding and embracing his gift. After the physical passing of his
mother three weeks before his fifteenth birthday, he experienced a profound spirit connection
with her. The memory of seeing his mother whole again, no longer tormented by the darkness
of addiction, eventually sparked Bill’s need to share his compelling story.
There has been an evident shift in belief systems around the globe. Millions are reaching
out to find answers, to understand death in the face of tragedy and loss. According to the
Reverend Andrew M. Greeley, a sociologist at the University of Chicago, 81 percent of
Americans believe in an afterlife. This helps explain the growing spiritual interest of
Americans demonstrated by the success of television shows, live mediumship events, and
books on the subject.
Expect the Unexpected is a down-to-earth, honest account of how spirits communicate
with Bill Philipps, how he nurtured his gift, and how you can learn to recognize the signs our
spirit loved ones use to guide us in our lives.
Bill goes beyond the facile anecdote and shares some of the most chilling and soul-
shaking experiences unearthed by his work. Through many testimonials, his clients share
their heartfelt connections, helping us to know that love is stronger than death, and spirit
communication is possible for all. He squelches the fear associated with death and provides
his audiences and readers with healing and an accessible understanding of death, dying, and
the inspiring connections beyond the grave.
When I first met Bill, I was immediately drawn to his passion for his work and to his
message. Only a handful of mediums come from a place of no ego — and Bill is one of those
rare gems. You know how it feels when you meet someone and instantly feel connected, and
you resonate on the same level? That’s what transpired in our first meeting. His goal is the
same as mine: to spread knowledge, healing, and love to all.
This book is the story of Bill’s personal journey, but it is a story that instructs us all. His
sincerity, devotion to the process, and enthusiasm in spreading knowledge make him a
genuine teacher. May Bill, with his messages, teachings, and abilities, flourish as he helps
legions of people heal after loss. People need to know not only that their loved ones continue
to exist in some form and dimension but also that their loved ones still play a role in their
lives here on earth.
— Maureen Hancock, author of The Medium Next Door
Introduction
P sychic medium.
The term conjures images of a flashing neon sign suspended in a dark window of a
rundown storefront on a desolate urban street. Inside is a shadowy room flush with
metaphysical decor and the faint sound of New Age music. An ornately dressed woman with
a deceiving smile sits behind a shiny deck of tarot cards, maybe even a crystal ball. She is
anxiously waiting to spew vague claims and suck money from the vulnerable, who are
seeking nothing more than a glint of hope to heal their pain or enhance their lives.
At least that’s how I envisioned one — until I discovered that I was one myself. As a six-
foot-five-inch, thirty-one-year-old suburban businessman from Southern California with an
operatic voice and a degree from the San Francisco Conservatory of Music, I’m pretty
confident that I shatter the stereotype. In fact, my entire life story defies belief.
I was the product of alcoholic and drug-addicted parents, witnessing filth as a child to
which no one of any age should be subjected. I was kidnapped by my mom when I was six
years old, hustled across the country from the West Coast to the East Coast, where I was
homeless for most of the next three years. I was nine when I was shipped back to my dad
because my mom couldn’t sober up enough to take care of me. And I was fourteen when I
returned to NewYork to hold my mom’s hand and watch her die.
That was my childhood in a nutshell. Depressing? Absolutely. In fact, it was often a
living nightmare. But everything happens for a reason, and it was that tumultuous chain of
events that led to my extraordinary life today.
Two days after my mom’s death, she visibly appeared to me from “the other side” to let
me know that she was spiritually alive, and that the afterlife was a wonderful place to be. A
few weeks after her funeral, a strip-mall psychic in California, who had no idea who I was or
what I had just experienced with my mom three thousand miles away, literally pulled me off
the street to tell me I had an “amazing gift.”
I was an ordinary teenager just hanging out at the mall with my friends. I dismissed her as
some kind of whack job.
But three years later, there was no denying it. The spirits were there, dwelling in my head
all day and every day, desperately trying to communicate with their living loved ones through
me. Picture a mob of people — friendly, but persistent — perpetually knocking on every door
and window of your home. That’s what my mind endured from the spirits. I tried hard to
ignore them, refuting their presence, but their energy was too strong. I couldn’t shake them.
I reluctantly conducted readings for friends, hoping to satisfy the spirits so they would
leave me alone and infiltrate someone else’s psyche, but that strategy backfired. Word on the
other side evidently spread, because my mind was getting inundated with restless spirits
every day.
My popularity was also expanding among those on this side. People found out that I
wasn’t just conducting readings, that I was also doing them with compelling accuracy,
revealing specific personal details that nobody could have known without someone close to
them — someone who had died — telling me. This phenomenon was incredible even to me,
the messenger. I was somehow able to connect those on earth with the deceased. Or, to state
it more specifically, I was acknowledging the spirits of the dead who were determined to use
me as a channel to relay messages to their living loved ones.
But how was this happening? And why was it happening to me?
With testimonies from a wide spectrum of people — of various races, backgrounds, and
occupations, and even from onetime skeptics whose attitudes were initially nothing short of
cynical — Expect the Unexpected is a firsthand account of how spirits communicate with me.
In it I explain why I believe they chose me to do this, how I work with them to ultimately
convey their messages to you, how you can receive signs from them without the help of a
medium, and how you can use those signs to improve your daily life. The testimonies that
appear between chapters are from some of my thousands of past and current clients, who so
graciously agreed to share their profound experiences to help you understand how the spirits
work. The quotes at the beginnings of the chapters are words of inspiration written by me but
inspired by the spirits during my meditations.
There are those who will not want anything to do with this gift I have (you can count my
own grandmother in that category). But that’s okay. I’m not out to convert nonbelievers into
believers or to disrupt someone’s faith, as Grandma will attest. I do not force people to take
an interest in what I do. Unless you are open to knowing that a spirit is trying to
communicate with you, I will not tell you; it is a rule of mine by which the spirits must abide.
But an inordinate number of people around the world do believe, or are at least curious
enough to give the spirits a chance.
While I don’t have all the answers to the mysteries of this life or the next, I am confident
this book will give you three elements of comfort that we all want in our daily lives. These
are elements that I attempt to bring to all those who seek my help in connecting them with
the other side: peace, healing, and hope.
PART I
The universe works in mysterious ways to bring you exactly what you need at exactly the right time. Trust in your higher
source.
I was fourteen years old when I had my first encounter with the spirit world. It was the
starry summer evening of August 16, 1999. I’d been sound asleep in the upstairs guest
room of an old home in Amityville, NewYork, on Long Island’s south shore. The home,
coincidentally, was two doors down from the one that sparked the popular 1970s book and
movie The Amityville Horror.
Fortunately for me, there was nothing horrific about my encounter. In fact, it was quite
the opposite. I was awakened by a warm, inviting glow near the ceiling in the far corner of
the room. I sat up and rubbed my eyes to adjust to the radiance. And there she was.
A dazzling, young, gorgeous woman with deep-set eyes who was as fixated on me as I
was on her. I was mesmerized by her majestic appearance as she gently hovered within the
vibrant light, like an apparition. I sensed that she wanted to speak, but that she was waiting
for me to make the first move. What did she want me to say? We both remained silent and
patient, continuing our friendly stare-down for several seconds.
Finally, I blinked.
My body trembled when I realized who she was. It was an epiphany that blasted
shockwaves to my core.
“Mom?” I said timidly, confounded by her presence.
She smiled.
The last time I had seen her was in the hospital two days earlier — when she died.
The first question I am usually asked when I begin to tell this story is: “How do you
know it was not a dream?” I can assure you that while I’ve had some pretty vivid dreams in
my life, this was absolutely not one of them. Trust me, I tried hard to convince myself that I
wasn’t seeing what I thought I was seeing. A ghost? A spirit? My dead mother? No way. But
she was there. I was as awake as you are at this very moment.
Before I tell you what happened next, and to help you better understand the long-term
significance of that unparalleled moment, I need to take you on a brief journey through my
sordid childhood.
My mom and I shared a strong, unconditional, unbreakable mother-son bond, but our
relationship during our short time together was toxic. That toxicity derived primarily from
her heavy addiction to drugs and alcohol. She shared the drug habit with my dad, who also
abused her. There was a vicious cycle of hate, anger, and degradation around me that I could
not escape. That I turned out as normal as I did, considering the hell I was dragged through
and witnessed as a child, is nothing short of a miracle. Sometimes I wonder how I made it out
of my early years alive.
My mom boldly kidnapped me from my dad when I was six years old. The three of us
had been living together at the time in Southern California with my paternal grandmother.
My parents had been separated for a few months before that and then had reunited. Dad
thought they had reconciled, but it was a devious ploy by my mom to gain his trust before
running away with me. She had a boyfriend at the time and had formulated a plan to skip
town with both of us. She implemented it one ordinary weekday morning after Dad left for
work. She gave him a kiss, closed the front door behind him, then peered through the
peephole to ensure that he was gone. As soon as he pulled away, she dashed to the bedroom
and grabbed the bags she’d secretly packed the night before. She clutched my hand and told
me to stay close to her as we scurried to a waiting car driven by our neighbor. The neighbor
peeled out of the driveway and took us to the home of my mom’s friend, who was expecting
us. It was a well-orchestrated abduction by my mom, who had several helpful hands involved
in her scheme.
When Dad came home later that day and realized we had vanished, he hit the streets to
search for me. While we hid in my mom’s friend’s house, Dad telephoned in a rage,
demanding to know if we were there. Afraid that he was about to find us, Mom rushed us out
of the house. We fled down the street, desperately knocking on neighbors’ doors until we
were taken in by total strangers, a kindhearted family that I will never forget. Huddled inside,
we could hear my dad calling me from the street: “Billlllllyyyyyy! Billlllllyyyyyy!” I was
confused about how I was supposed to feel. In one sense, I felt safe with Mom. In another
sense, it didn’t feel right that Mom was hiding me from Dad. I could hear the desperation in
his voice with each cry of my name.
With Mom fearing he might find us, we covertly left the strangers’ home on foot after
dark, about ten o’clock, for an abandoned school bus in a nearby ditch. Yes, a school bus in a
ditch. Welcome to the drug underworld.
There I was, an innocent six-year-old boy up way past his bedtime, hiding out in a musty,
broken-down bus lit with gas lanterns. While my friends were in their homes, blissfully and
soundly sleeping in the comfort of their own beds, I was surrounded by eight adults smoking
their crack pipes, jabbing themselves with needles, and performing sex acts on each other. I
tried not to look as I maneuvered past them toward the back of the bus. I snuggled into the
last seat, covered my ears, and closed my eyes in an attempt to escape the repulsiveness. My
mom gave me a kiss on the forehead and told me she loved me before going to join her
friends.
I don’t know why, but strangely enough I felt relaxed and comforted within seconds, as if
a force field of love were protecting me. Everybody ignored me, and I was able, for the most
part, to avoid watching and listening to their repugnant acts. Who knows, maybe that was
actually my first encounter with the spirit world. Maybe that force field of love was the work
of those on the other side shielding me from the evil that abounded. That bus was a horrific
place to be, but somehow I safely made it through the night.
The next morning my mom, her boyfriend, and I boarded another bus — a working
Greyhound this time — for a cross-country trip to Brooklyn, where her boyfriend had family.
It was a wearisome three-thousand-mile trek over several days to a place that was not much
different from the one I’d left. The phrase “It takes a village to raise a child” definitely
applied to me, but the villagers raising me in NewYork left a lot to be desired.
Sometimes Mom and I lived in a crowded two-bedroom brownstone house with ten of
her boyfriend’s relatives. Other times we crashed at her boyfriend’s sister’s house, or with
friends of theirs. I never felt wanted by our hosts; their homes were simply places to lay our
heads, the atmospheres desolate. I was nothing more than another body in an already
crowded place. We moved from house to house, apartment to apartment, even church to
church. I never considered myself homeless, because there was always a roof above me; but
by the federal government’s definition, my situation was the essence of homeless.
I transferred to new schools multiple times each year, never settling into a routine or able
to make many friends. My grades were decent, considering how many times I had to start
over, but my real-world education outside of school overshadowed my academics. Drugs and
violence were prevalent wherever we squatted. I was in the living room of a home one day
with a couple of guys I barely knew — Mom was out on one of her drug binges — when one
of the guys pulled a gun on the other during an argument. It scared me but didn’t surprise me.
Some nights I went to bed and got a kiss goodnight from Mom. Most nights I tucked
myself in and cried myself to sleep because she didn’t come home. I never considered
running away, but if I had I’m not sure anybody would have noticed I was gone. It was not
unusual for Mom to disappear for weeks at a time as she wandered the streets looking for her
drug fix. One Christmas Eve, I went to sleep wondering if she would make it home before
Santa Claus arrived. She did... after police found her slumped on a cold metal bench in a train
station. She was higher than Rudolph could fly. Merry Christmas.
My mom was a lost soul. As a result, so was I.
My turbulent life in NewYork lasted for three long years and ended, fittingly, when my
mom went on another of her extended drug runs. We had been living temporarily with her
boyfriend’s sister, who decided enough was enough. I don’t think she had anything against
me; she simply decided she wasn’t going to be responsible for raising her brother’s
girlfriend’s son anymore. Who could blame her? I wasn’t her kid. Technically I wasn’t even
family. She somehow found a way to reach my paternal grandmother in California. I hadn’t
seen anyone on that side of the family since the abduction.
“I’m not taking care of this boy anymore,” she said to my grandma. “If you buy his plane
ticket, he’s all yours. I’ll drive him to the airport.”
Grandma and some other family members chipped in to buy the ticket. They actually had
me fly from NewYork to Las Vegas, where my dad was temporarily working on a
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son estat. Et ainsi fut ordonné pour recevoir en Calais le roy et sa
chevalerie. Quant ce fut fait, le roy monta à cheval et fit monter la
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