The world of the unexplained.

When you mention to someone for the first time that you may have had
experiences with the paranormal, you’ll find that the majority of people will
fall into two main categories: The total skeptics who will tell you you’re a moron and offer some explanation for your experience that satisfies them, but
probably won’t satisfy you, and flakes who will not only embrace your story, but start offering even weirder explanations for what occurred
like “angels” or “aliens” or anything else they’ve been reading about or seen
on TV lately. A small number of people you tell will listen to your story, ask
a few intelligent questions, offer a few suggestions without becoming offended if you explain how they’re just not applicable, then conclude still on good terms with you whether they believed a thing you said or not. I fall into the latter category. Because I’ve studied paranormal phenomenon for many years, I’m always open to the experiences of others, and I don’t judge even if I don’t believe a word you’ve said. If I’m inclined to believe the teller, I love visiting alleged sites of such occurrences to see if I can come up with an explanation based upon science and observation, or if the phenomenon will
repeat for me. I myself have endured strange events in my life which many
others have found unbelievable, thus, without ascertainable proof, I cannot
expect you to believe what I’m about to relate to you here and now. I believe
these things because I can remember them and in some instances I was not the
only person involved. It’s true that memory may lie—especially after a very
long time has passed—or that perceptions may be flawed by various relevant circumstances, but what you are about to read here are a scant handful of strange events I have been a part of, still remember to the best of my ability, and will swear to my grave are absolutely true . Feel free to suggest any possible causes for any of what I’m about to relate. I’d be as pleased to know each has a rational explanation I’ve just overlooked as I would to somehow learn that each one truly belongs in the realm of paranormal
experience.

My first visit to New York City and the reason it haunts me to this very day
happened when I was about six years old. A family who had lived in our
neighborhood for some time was moving north and the mother wanted to
know if my mom would help her as she visited schools and checked out potential apartments. She had three kids—one about my age. After a day of driving around and waiting in the car a lot, it was decided we should all go take a break somewhere. I remember the restaurant was not terribly big and seemed to’ve been done in a lot of browns and reds. The girl my age and I sat beside each other on a long, padded bench which took up most of one wall. Square tables were drawn up before it every so many feet and chairs were placed beside these, facing the long bench seat. Because there were six of us, two tables had been pushed together so that we might all eat together. My friend and I were chatting about nothing in particular when I was suddenly struck by an uncanny urge to leave, to run, to just get the hell outta there at all costs and any
means. I tell people it was a voice in my head, and as I’ve “heard” it since,
I may still call it such, but it’s more like an instant, strong, undeniable
command and has no real volume or timbre or gender. Unable to deny the
sensation, I literally crawled over my friend in an effort to flee the
vicinity. As I was scrambling over her and across the padded bench, an
approaching waitress was strolling over with a pot of hot coffee and happened
to set it where the two tables met. The tables weren’t a perfect match and the
surface was uneven. Our moms were exclaiming irritatedly over my abrupt rude behavior. Once I was clear of the tables and the bench, I happened to turn and look back at my friend. I saw the waitress release the coffee pot
(a tall, copper-colored carafe), and the pot tipped in the direction of the
bench, spilling scalding hot liquid across the tables and all over my
astonished friend. My mom and I headed home that night while my friend
remained in the hospital with second and third degree burns.

Some time after that, I remember waking up one night and turning over to get
more comfortable, facing the door to my room. There was somebody standing
there. I watched the figure for a long time, unable to recognize who it might
be. She was about five and a half feet tall with long straight dark hair, and
very pale complected. She seemed hazy and indistinct to me, done solely in
soft white light and shadows, yet unquestionably stood there, in a
long-sleeved white dress that left her feet in shadow. I realized I could see
right through her. Perplexed, I fell asleep still staring at her. She returned the next night, and the next for eight nights straight. She never moved nor made a sound. I wasn’t afraid of her, but every time I happened to wake and see her there, I’d watch her until I’d drifted off to sleep again. On the ninth night she appeared, her dress was a shimmery gold color and I watched her move her head and arms, the shadow of her mouth opening and closing as though she was speaking to me. Intrigued, I propped myself up on one elbow and squinted, trying to figure out what she was up to. I used to talk to a crucifix hung over my crib, and later over my bed as a child, so when my father who was trying to sleep in my parents’ room across the hall allegedly heard me chatting to no one in the night (I have no memory of speaking aloud to the figure) he decided to put an end to the nonsense once and for all. I saw him lumber out of his room and across the hall toward my bedroom. I remember crying out loudly, “Daddy—watch out for the lady!” at which point he stopped in my doorway, the figure completely dissipated, and my father (who’d seen nothing) told me to shut up and go to sleep. I never saw her again.

I’ve spent most of my life in Maryland in a small “row-house” with a back view
of a large cemetery. The Eastern Shore of Maryland is somewhat unique with its
plenitude of cemeteries. Many a homeowner buys property containing a small family plot or at some point discovers the remains of an old headstone in his yard. The original farming families were a practical lot who often just planted deceased family members in the backyard, the sideyard, along the dirt road to the farmhouse, or in the midst of a large crop field. Headstones can often be found while wandering through lonely patches of forest, and I’ve met a number of people with stories of walking through fields or forests or old cemeteries who at some point broke through an unseen rotted casket and stepped into somebody’s hundred plus year old remains. So I’ve spent a lot of time
thinking about death, but then I’ve always been surrounded by it. I never
frolicked in old graveyards like many friends of mine have, playing tag as
children or climbing down into freshly dug graves to poke about before the
casket was brought in, but I’m very at ease in a cemetery, and have spent many
afternoons, early mornings, and even late nights in them whether I knew any of the buried folk or not. This is just to give you some idea of where my keen
interest in parapsychology and related fields comes from.

Again at about age six, I recall gazing up at the stars one night through the large window which overlooked the cemetery. Just for fun, I thought I could maybe touch one of the stars, so I reached up and touched the glass over top of what was probably really Venus or Mars. When my finger made contact with the glass, something suddenly struck it a stinging blow and clattered to the window ledge, scaring the crap out of me. The item I picked up was a small, metal, horse-shaped pin painted brown with black mane and tail. I showed it to my mother who had no idea where it had come from and imagined I’d found it somewhere and created a strange story of how I’d discovered it. I kept it in my top dresser drawer for years. When I was eleven, an old friend of my mother’s came to the house for a visit, and happened to be wearing a similar pin, but unpainted and all silver. I told her about my own pin (of course she thought I was just a really imaginative child) and offered to fetch it to compare to the one she wore. The last time I’d taken the pin out to show to anyone, I had set it on the top shelf of the coat closet to bring upstairs later and put away, then forgotten it. I opened the closet door and reached up on the shelf, my fingers finding it immediately, but when I drew it down, I saw it was larger, and silvery colored with little stones (probably rhinestones) set into its mane. Amazed, I brought it back to the dining room with me and tried to explain that something very, very strange was occurring, but mom was unimpressed with my “antics” and her guest seemed a bit disturbed by my astonished behavior. When I brought the pin back upstairs, the original
painted one was still in my dresser. I now keep both pins together inside a
very old, very heavy and thick safe. What the heck is this? Gifts From Beyond?

One summer when I was a teen, I entered the house through the back door and
headed through the living room toward the stairs when I happened to notice
something dark on the ceiling. I couldn’t figure out what it was. It vaguely resembled a clump of somewhat moist masticated chocolate cookie with cornmeal in it...it’s really difficult to describe. I kept staring at it, and I jumped and waved my hand very near it suspecting it might move. Perhaps one of those moths that looks like tree bark, I decided, and made my way upstairs. I grabbed what I’d wanted, saw the thing still in place when I descended, then went to tell my mother there was something odd on the ceiling in the living room. She came in, looked at it from different angles, waved at it. “I think it’s a moth,” I told her, “but, I’m not sure.” It had my attention, so I left to retrieve a chair from the dining room I could stand on for a closer look. It didn’t improve with nearness, and I realized I couldn’t make out a head on the thing. I had no idea what it was, and my mother was beginning to think I’d
put it there as a joke, so she kept asking me to just tell her what it was
already. I found a jar to catch it in. I surrounded the thing with glass jar,
then slowly moved the edge across the ceiling toward it, thinking it would flutter around at any moment. It didn’t. I moved even more slowly once I’d touched it, not wishing to harm the thing, and it sort of mushily came undone and clung to the edge of the jar. I drew the container down and tilted it so I could look at it, but there was still no telling what the substance was and it had left no damp or greasy mark on the ceiling at all. We sealed it in the jar, shook it, looked at it, decided it was remarkably disturbing and had no idea of its origin or how it had wound up on the ceiling...and soon thereafter we just threw the whole jar away. Paranormal? Maybe not...but definitely startling and an unexplainable phenomenon.

One day, up in my room, working on some artwork, I distinctly heard my
mother’s voice call my name from downstairs. Irritated, I got up and trooped to the top of the stairs to shout down, “What?” Simultaneously, my mother, who had just arrived at the bottom of the stairs, shouted up at me, “What?” I repeated myself. She repeated herself. “What do you want?” I asked her, getting a little upset. “What do you mean, what do I want?” she asked. “You just called me,” I told her, exasperated. “No,” she said, also sounding a little disgruntled, “you just called me.” “I did not!” This went on for a few more exchanges until I finally groused, “I distinctly heard your voice say my
name from the bottom of the stairs just a few seconds ago!” She replied, “I
just heard your voice say, ‘Mom’ just a few seconds ago...” I think we were
both a little shaken by that one...

It wasn’t uncommon at night for me to hear a sound like someone ascending or
descending the stairs slowly, with somewhat heavy footfalls, and with what I always took for a heavy ring clacking against the wooden banister with each
step. I was used to the sound. I’d never heard it ascending or descending
behind me while I was on the stairs, so it was never that big of a deal. I told my first girlfriend about it, and like anyone else who’d heard my “ghost”
stories, she took it with a grain of salt. Until she started sleeping over at
the house and finally heard it for herself a couple of times.

Long after my first pet cat died, I frequently felt it hop up onto my bed and curl up with me at night. Sometimes it would just stand there, other times it would nestle into a crook behind my knees...but there was never a cat there
when I lifted my head and looked for it. No matter how many times I’ve moved,
my “ghost cats” have come with me, confusing me when I’ve had real cats in the house and I’ve reached to pet one after it’s joined me on the bed and there’s nothing there.

Between the ages of twelve and twenty-two I owned twenty-two wristwatches. At
moments of extreme excitement either pleasurable or the opposite, the alarms
would go off, the date or time would flash, functions would change without the buttons being activated, or they’d just go haywire trying to race through
every function if not just flat out shutting down temporarily. As a child, I
made a little diorama of a houseplan from a shoebox and wanted a “clock” on
one wall over the little paper fireplace. My grandmother allowed me to play with her jewelry, pretending it was pirate booty or what have you, so I knew she had an old wind-up watch in her top dresser drawer. I grabbed it, wound it, set the time, then used stick-tack to adhere it to the “wall”. When I
showed her my finished project, she admired it, but wanted to know where the
clock had come from. “It’s yours,” I told her, and she pulled it free for a
closer inspection. “This piece stopped running in the nineteen forties,” she
told me, a little breathless. “I’ve brought it to many jewelers and watch
repairmen and they all said it would never run again.” It ran perfectly in my
little “house” and for some months after I’d given it back and scrapped the
little diorama. Right after my grandmother died, a digital game/alarm clock I’d kept by my bed for years began to run fast. Changing the batteries didn’t alter it’s behavior. I was constantly having to reset it. It would gain five to twenty-five minutes a week. I eventually had to use it solely as a game.

I’d just arrived home after flying back from my grandmother’s funeral. I wanted to go out to eat, but the restaurant I called said it was closing, so I couldn’t reserve a table. Crappy small towns close restaurants early, you see.
I dragged out pots and pans to make myself a plate of spaghetti. After filling my large plastic bowl with hot cooked pasta, I was ladling sauce from a
saucepan over top of the spaghetti when the bowl suddenly turned about 180
degrees. I froze for just a moment, recalling I’d seen beverage glasses move
across tables and counters before when they were perched upon collected
moisture. Jokingly, I said aloud, “Oh, not enough sauce on this side?” and
ladled tomato sauce over the pasta I hadn’t yet topped. As I lifted the bowl
to carry it into the living room, I automatically felt the bottom of the bowl for the condensation I expected...but both bowl and countertop were bone dry.

My grandmother died at the row house on the back porch. She’d left us on a
lovely sunny day, seated on the old-fashioned two-seater bench swing. I’m not sure what the paramedics did when they arrived, but I do know there was a
small bit of blood pooled on the concrete near the back door before they
wheeled her away. I’d bled on the concrete myself years before when I’d nearly severed one big toe, and the stain had rinsed away fairly easily. This new bloodstain stayed. I was playing on the back porch with the cats some months after Grandmother’s death. I had a little Batmobile you could “rev up” by dragging its wheels across a surface a few times, then set it down and push down on Batman’s head and the little car would shoot forward four or five feet. Every time Batman stopped, I’d crawl over to him, rev up his car, then turn him in the opposite direction and let the cats chase him again. Where he went was never precise—just more or less straight ahead unless the cats
knocked his trajectory off a bit. At one point, I realized that when I
released the car, it would probably travel directly over the bloodstain. I
revved it, then released it anyway. The car traveled about a foot before
stropping abruptly, directly atop the bloodstain. I remained crouched in
place, staring at the scene a bit grimly before finally picking the little toy up. The little wheels finished spinning their cycle once I’d lifted it clear of the old, dry dark spot on the concrete.

I love antiquities. Coins, maps, keys, and other adventuresome trinkets catch
my interest keenly. I purchased an old bronze coin with Chinese characters on
it from a bowl of them at a kiosk in the local shopping mall. I decided to
wear it and so purchased a length of black satin cord to string through it. I
donned the necklace, then took a nap. My car was due for an oil change, so I’d
dropped it off earlier in the day, then returned home to try and get some sleep
before work (I used to go to bed at dawn, then go to work at three in the
afternoon). As I slept, I had three dreams. In one, I dreamed the bill for my oil change was over two hundred dollars. In the next, I dreamed I was on my way to work and the brakes failed on my car. In the third, I dreamed I made it to work and there was a sign as I entered that said congratulations to one of the girls in the sales department for giving birth to a baby girl. When I woke, I called about my car to see if it was ready. Yes, I was told, but they’d discovered a problem with the brakes, so the bill was over two hundred dollars. After I’d paid the bill and picked up my car, I went directly to work. The sign in the lobby which normally just welcomed guests to the place now said congratulations to one of the girls in the sales department, and listed the time of birth and weight of her newborn. I later discovered this trinket I’d bought is an I-Ching coin, used for centuries in divination practices by the Chinese. It’s hanging beside me right now on a silken cord along with a jade ring and a cut point of aventurine.

There have been numerous moments when I was relaxing in my childhood home, watching TV or writing or what have you, and distinctly heard the sound of a small, but heavy object drop and strike the carpeting. By sound alone, I've usually described the alleged object as a fishing weight or sinker. There was nothing ever visible in the spot when I'd check, but before I'd ever make it to see, one or more of the cats would have invariably raced to the spot and would be staring at or even sniffing the area where the nonexistent object had fallen. Just so you know--the carpeting lay atop concrete and below that was just solid earth. No basement or crawlspace at all. Shortly after my wife and I moved to our log cabin in Florida, we heard a loud racket as what sounded like a length of iron pipe about a foot long fell from some height and struck our concrete floor. It woke us both, and we even heard the follow-up slight rolling sound after it hit and allegedly settled. The dog was startled, but seemed unable to pinpoint the source of the noise. We never discovered anything which might have caused it. Again, there is only dirt beneath our concrete floor and there is no upstairs or attic.

A great number of odd occurrences have been a part of my life since I was
quite young. I’ve seen more indistinct figures, but none so well or cooperative as the woman in my doorway. I’ve had the “Voice” tell me who not
to vote for and warn me away from a stray dog I’d tried to befriend once. So-called “psychic” dreams are not uncommon with me, and I’ve learned how to recognize “visions”. I’ve argued with my Ouija board, but I’m still convinced it was only me I was arguing with. I recall taking a train ride to Boston and dreaming on the train of a place with a roof, but not enough walls, and a woman in a nice dress suit with an attaché case at her side, standing on a manhole cover while pigeons strolled around her. I couldn’t figure out how the place could have a ceiling, but be outdoors, too. When we later disembarked, we were sheltered by a roof at the train platform, and I stared open-mouthed at the woman my mother led me past, standing there on a large manhole cover ignoring the pigeons while she held her attaché case at her side. Dreams are a huge part of my life—my whole Quasar 169 series deals with dream research and
interpretation techniques. The main character from Trumpet Of The Unicorn,
Geoff McKenna, is, like me, a sort of amateur parapsychologist. How could I
not brush up on the subject when aspects of it seem to have so successfully pervaded my life? There are numerous more strange incidents I could relate to you, but these are definitely the highlights. I hope you caught chills. I swear everything I’ve related here is true . I had hoped to major in parapsychology at Goddard. I wrote about this hope in the essay I sent in with my application when I was a senior in high school, relating a few of the incidences I’ve told you here. I recall the first time I’d ever set foot in the place, visiting the campus to make sure it was what I really wanted, and the woman in charge beamed when she saw me, striding up to me confidentially
as if we were old friends, acknowledging me by name despite the fact I’d never seen her before in my life, then ruffling the hair at the back of my head as she exclaimed over how much better my hair looked now that it was shorter. I’d never even sent a photo of myself to this woman, and yes, I’d just had my hair trimmed back considerably a week before. The whole event thrilled and even frightened me just a little bit. Too bad my father vetoed the place, but I understand they don’t offer parapsychology there as a major anymore anyway.

I'm seldom so comfortable as I am when surrounded by spooky! I'm known for failing to run when things turn strange--even if someone is intentionally just pulling our legs! A good ghost story can raise goose bumps on my arms before an actual haunting ever will.

If you're interested in studying the paranormal in person, let me give you a few tips. First: it's helpful to have a background in prestidigitation. If you know how to create illusions yourself, it's easier to recognize fraudulent hauntings. A basic knowledge of science tricks of the sort that entertain bar patrons is also helpful for the same reason. You might also find crime scene investigation tricks helpful...or you can probably fudge that by watching a few old re-runs of Scooby-Doo. I've yet to have anybody intentionally lie about their experiences with me, but you should always keep in mind what you know of the person ahead of time--such as their drinking habits or history of self-medicating for health or pleasure, if they've been ill recently, getting enough sleep, are well-nourished, etc. The best stories are those which involve more than one witness, even if a witness was an animal. If possible, see if you can re-create the conditions existing when and where the event took place. Even if the Spooky doesn't drop by while you're waiting for it, maybe instead you'll be able to determine how the alleged haunting took place via explainable means. Tricks like a thin layer of talc left where sounds are heard may show footprints later. Try searching for sources of gusts or changing air pressure where things like doors and cabinets are known to open and close. Is there a lightswitch in the house that operates something in another room? Cockroaches love to nibble the insulation covering wires, so shorts are to be considered where electricity is involved. Check for reflecting objects, see where moonlight strikes, look for magnets and condensation, ants or mice, a bird or bat roosting in an attic, air in pipes. The more detailed your investigation, the better chance you'll have to rule out the possiblity of foul play or natural causes. I read once about a cabin in a woods which would creak and moan almost exactly every four hours, then gradually settle into silence again. Turned out an underground water source almost directly beneath the structure, though several feet down, was just reacting to tides coming in and out of a small cave half a mile away. To over-react is generally silly but fun, until you figure out what's really scaring you. Just to keep people from getting hurt, try keeping your wits about you when alleged phenomena is occurring in your presence. I've heard of people claiming of being physically attacked by "ghosts", but most such claims are suspect, and I myself have never been hurt by anything odd.

Most "ghost" sightings are reported during daylight hours...mainly since that's when most of us are awake to see things. Duh. But if you need a light on while you're trying to sleep at night I won't tell. Promise. I'd recommend you not hire "professional" psychics or what have you since so many have proven themselves money-grubbing frauds, but if you feel you must take this route, go through someone you or your friends or family members have heard of and not from the yellow pages or the back of a magazine. Again, let me stress that the bulk of paranormal claims can be explained if investigated reasonably in a rational, scientific manner. If nothing's being hurt or damaged by the alleged haunting, can you learn to just live with it? Such tales are great at parties or to scare off unwanted houseguests with. You might even develop a relationship with your new invisible friend, and there are people who swear their noncorporeal houseguests move with them from residence to residence!

If you're interested in learning more about the world of the paranormal, books are your best bet. Try to stick with authors who write not only about "true " hantings but also ones which proved to be explanable after all. Watch out for authors who try to make everything they write seem totally paranormal and totally true . There should always be room for doubt. Beware authors who try to convince you to follow along with their particular spiritual beliefs--a good investigator would rather have suggestions than followers. Lloyd Auerbach is an investigator who has put out a couple of excellent books which tell how to become an investigator yourself. Be aware that some phenomena may exist solely within the witness' imagination, and if so you must be able to handle such situations with tact and diplomacy. Never automatically dismiss a person's stories in a way that angers or frightens them. Keep your doubts to yourself until you think you have disproved the claims. Be honest and observant, civil and brave, and maybe people will begin opening up to you too, inviting you to investigate local hauntings to gain experience. Have fun, don't break your leg running from something silly, and always seek new experiences in life. Nearly all of us have unexplainable stories to share. Until there's concrete proof one way or the other regarding every recognized "paranormal" event, there's nothing wrong with trying to find out the truth for yourself.

Happy Hauntings!