Let me preface this post by reiterating that I do not believe in gods, demons, spirits, or any of the host of other things that generally fall under the rubric of the “paranormal”.
I have, however, had a number of quite peculiar experiences in my life. The two I relate below can be dismissed readily enough, either by invoking coincidence, or because I was a most unreliable observer when they happened. They still stand out in my memory, though.
A Friendly Game
When I was in my late teens, my family went on a Thanksgiving vacation in Arkansas. An ice storm arrived at our little rented cabin in the mountains at about the same time we did, leaving us all cooped up inside for a time. When the storm cleared, I decided I wanted a little fresh air and peace, and I went for a walk.
The storm had transformed the forest into a faerieland of ice. Crystal leaves threw shattered rainbows everywhere, the frozen branches creaked and clattered in the wind, and in the midst of the clattering, I heard…laughter. Somewhere, a child was laughing.
I looked around, and caught a glimpse blond hair disappearing behind a tree. Wondering what a child could be doing out there, I followed. In fact, I followed such glimpses for quite a while, losing track of time. I should have caught up within moments, but I never saw more than a bit of golden hair, or the hem of a blue dress whipping out of sight. I called out, but got no answer beyond more laughter in the distance.
In time, I came to a small clearing under a looming rock face. There had clearly been a cabin there at some point, but there wasn’t much left of it. In the back of the place, under a stone overhang, was a worn grave marker. Some of the words were unreadable, but in the late 1800s, a little girl named Sarah Ann Luttrell had been laid to rest there after dying of a fever. Beneath the name and dates, where one might expect to find some shopworn sentiment, was a sentence that read–as best I could tell–“She liked to play hide and seek.”
Does this mean I’m the Vanishing Hitchhiker? I’m so confused.
There was a period in college when I drank rather heavily–shocking, I know. During this time, I went barhopping with some friends in New Orleans. Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, I got separated from them, finding myself alone on a darkened street with fog rolling in. With the confidence of the monumentally inebriated, I selected a direction that would theoretically take me to my hotel and started walking.
As I walked, doubts began to creep in. It was getting darker and foggier, and there were no brightly-lit signs trying to entice me into dubious houses of entertainment. Eventually, I noticed that I was walking on dirt–or moderately firm mud, which is what passes for dirt in those parts–rather than asphalt. I turned and looked behind me, and the sky-glow of the city was gone. What light I could see through the fog was faint and somehow unsteady, more like flame than neon. I stood there for a time, wondering where I had managed to lose myself, then heard faint clopping and creaking sounds approaching from behind.
I whirled around–actually, I probably sort of staggered in a circle, but I like to think of it as whirling–and saw a cart approaching. It was a battered old trap, a far cry from the tourist buggies you often see in New Orleans. The old man driving it reined in as he came even with me and gave me a long look. He shook his head and patted the seat beside him, and said, “This ain’t no fit night for walkin’, suh.”
For lack of anything more sensible to do, I climbed aboard. He chucked the reins, and we rolled off toward the dim lights of the city. I thanked him for giving me a lift, and he nodded affably, but said nothing further. After a while, I started to doze off. When I snapped awake again, I was standing on the sidewalk in front of my hotel. There was no sign of the old man or his cart, and I couldn’t recall how I came to be there. For those familiar with New Orleans, I was also uninjured and still in possession of my wallet, watch, and clothing.
Oh, and there was mud on my shoes.
