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JAN'S TALES
A Medley of Spectral Contacts
(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Bear with me readers, as I am going to do
something totally different with this particular submission. Instead of leading
you through one meticulous story, I will attempt to guide you briefly through
several selected events during the course of my life. By all means theses are
not limited to every encounter but only reflect a handful of occurrences. For
now, turn the lights out, let only the illumination of the computer screen bathe
your face softly, have your cappuccino and cigarettes handy, and enjoy a medley
of ghostly confrontations.)
BILLY
A few years ago we had a black Shitzu as one of our pets. His name was Billy and
he was a fluffy ball of energy; always giving our two shepherds a delightful run
through the yard on a daily basis. I believe he was around 6 years old, when his
sight started going quickly, which is a very common trait with this type of
breed. He somehow escaped the fenced back yard one evening and found his way to
a nearby heavily traveled road and met his untimely end. Not only did the family
grieve over his death but my two other dogs, Sam and Clarice, did their share of
moping around with sadness also. It was about a week later that I started
noticing a small black bouncing object in my peripheral vision that would always
head for the back door. Sam and Clarice would follow and make their noises for
me to come let them outside. Between their legs I would see the transparent
figure of Billy racing down the stairs trying to get in front of them before
their feet hit the grass. Once in the yard the two shepherds would race next to
each other, chasing after the fading haze in a playful romp. This went on for a
few weeks and then for some reason Billy never showed himself again. I guess he
went on to travel along the famed ‘Rainbow Bridge’ to a special heavenly place
where all our pets go to wait for their masters to come rejoin them when the
time comes.
(Note: Update: As I was writing up these short encounters another ghost of a
more recent pet appeared in our kitchen. His name was Vladimir and was a part
Siamese cat. I won’t go into details about his passing a few weeks ago, but just
the other day as I was sitting in the kitchen I noticed that Clarice, one of my
shepherds, was staring at something in the hall way that connects to the
kitchen. She lay down, with her chin on the floor and emitted a soft whimpering
sound; I followed her eyes and was amazed to see Vladimir emerging from the
hallway to sit a few feet from Clarice and begin to groom himself. His image
stayed before us for about three to four seconds then he faded away. I breathed
a sigh of relief, knowing that he was at peace and out of pain on the other
side. It is a very humbling and healing experience to witness the spirit of a
deceased pet, friend or member of the family, trying to communicate with you
from beyond the fine curtain that separates our world from theirs.)
THE TATTOOED MAN
Several years ago, before I resigned from my job, I awoke in the middle of the
night to the movement of Montana, (A previous German shepherd we owned.) jumping
off the bed, running half way down the hallway, stopping, turning around and
then growling. She was looking up at something, her teeth showing through a
clenched snout, and the nape of her neck hairs was standing straight up. All
this wasn’t unusual behavior as it happens quite frequently so I rose up on one
elbow to await the unknown visitor. From the illumination of the night light
coming from the bathroom into the hall, I saw Montana calm down a bit, relax and
then lower herself on the carpet where she lay, still looking up at ‘someone’
standing in front of her. A shadowy figure appeared then turned to walk through
my doorway and as it did it instantly became a man. I could see most of him from
the night light coming from my own bedroom. (I told you I sleep with several
night lights throughout the entire house…smile.) He was well over six foot tall,
with a very stocky build, much like that of a wrestler who hasn’t worked out in
a few months. He wore a sleeveless t-shirt, the kind that has the thin shoulder
straps, extra large armholes and has that tiny thin ribbed design going from top
to bottom. His shirt was sloppily tucked in his blue jeans and he wore no belt.
His arms and neck were covered with colorful tattoos but I couldn’t make out
their designs. He had long dark brown hair, and dark brown goatee and mustache.
I felt no threat from this man as he just stood there and gazed at me for a
moment then took something out of one of his pockets, a bandanna, worked it in
his hands until it formed what looked like a do-rag similar to what bikers wore,
then raised both his arms and began the process of placing it on his head around
his forehead and tying it in the back. I remember talking to him quietly, asking
if he needed assistance, but he stood there just silently staring in a sad sort
of way. With a gentle smile I told him he needed to go towards the brighter
light above him to find the peace he seemed to need. He nodded his head once,
and then turned to fade away while walking through the door frame.
The next day, while driving home after work and after picking Josh up from the
sitters, we got held up on a street that crossed over a set of railroad tracks a
few miles from our home. We were waiting right behind an ambulance, a coroner’s
car and a few police cars, that were just this side of the tracks. The officials
had the railroad crossing arms down to keep traffic at bay while they attended
to something down the tracks. Within a few minutes, Josh and I saw 4 men walking
down the tracks carrying a large gurney; there was someone laying on it with a
sheet over it, covering the complete body. Following along side were a few
police officers and a man in a dark suit with a clipboard. They continued off
the tracks, down the short stretch of blacktop road to the back of the
ambulance, and proceeded to try and turn the stretcher around to try and load it
inside. The body that was on the stretcher was quite large as you could see the
4 men struggling with the weight of the cadaver, even one of the body’s arms
fell out from beneath the covering. It was all tattooed and had some dark round
blotches, like bullet holes, up around the shoulder area. One of the men lost
his grip and the backside of the stretcher dropped at an odd angle while the
rest tried to retain their grasp on the device. Half of the protective covering
slid off and revealed the upper torso of the dead man. More ‘bullet holes’ could
be seen on his red stained sleeveless t-shirt and from what I could see, being
within 12 to 15 feet from the back of the ambulance, I felt rather confident
that this was the same tattooed man that had visited me the night before. For
the next week or so I would scan the newspapers and listen to the news but there
was never anything ever printed up or said about a body being found in that
area. I felt the only thing I could do was to pray that justice would be done
and to let the Higher source take care of the situation.
A HAND ON MY SHOULDER
Back in the late 70’s, around the end of 1977 I believe, I had a very close
cousin of mine, David, pass away. I was still living in Missouri and he lived in
Kentucky. We had just seen each other that summer, as he had to travel to St.
Louis for several doctors’ appointments after having a terrible car accident
earlier on in the year. He had to see some specialists, as Kentucky back then
didn’t have certain medical technologies needed for his recovery and
reconstructive surgeries. For months since the accident he dealt with a variety
of pain and suffering on a daily basis and it seemed an end was not in sight for
at least several more months.
I lived in a duplex next to my grandma at the time and had just left her front
door and was entering my own and closing the door behind me when I felt a very
firm hand upon my right shoulder. I turned around wondering who was standing in
the corner by the door and saw nothing, but the firm hold on my shoulder did not
waiver, but only turned it’s position as I had turned my body.
“I’m at peace now, there is no more pain, tell my family,” said a voice in a
hushed whisper, like it was carried by a gentle breeze. It was my cousin,
David’s voice. I said his name aloud in a question, and the voice responded
again, “I have no more pain…it’s peaceful here…my brother and sister are here to
help me…tell mom I love her and tell dad I’m sorry…take care of Ronda and Joey.”
The presence I held felt on my shoulder reached out and engulfed me with a
serene and most tranquil embrace; like a hug goodbye. And then he was gone. (My
aunt had two previous children that had passed away by different circumstances.)
My mom had seen me come in the front door only to turn around and face the
corner. After a few seconds she saw my body lean forward and my arms go up to
hold something that was not visible. “What was that all about?” she asked as I
slowly turned around to face her coming into the living room. “Mom,” I began,
“that was David… he’s dead”. We just stood there staring at each other, both of
us in disbelief; me over what I had just experienced and her over what she had
just heard. At that moment we heard grandma’s phone ring next door and we just
continued standing there very still. It was only a few seconds later that we
heard the loud cry of grandma repeating the same word over and over, “NO, NO,
NO…”
Tears fell down both our faces and we met halfway and hugged each other. I told
mom what David had said just a few moments before and we both turned and left
out the door to go over to grandmas. It was my aunt on the phone telling grandma
about David dying about an hour before.
MILK AND A BELAIR
About 5 or 6 years later after David passed away, his father, Fred died also.
(My aunt has had a terrible share of tragedies as you can tell by now.) I had
lived up in Indiana at the time and had to travel down to Kentucky for the
funeral. I stayed at my aunt’s house and slept in the living room on the floor
on the night before the funeral. The couches were taken by Ronda and Joe, as
they didn’t want to sleep in their own bedrooms, but wanted to remain as close
as they could with the rest of the family at the time. During the night I heard
my aunt’s bedroom door open and someone walking towards the kitchen. I heard the
refrigerator open, and a moment later heard what sounded like liquid being
poured into a glass. Then I heard one of the kitchen chairs scooting across the
floor as it was being pulled back to be sat in. Immediately the sound of a
lighter being clicked open (one of the old fashion kind of lighters, not the
modern Bic) and the small metal wheel being stroked to ignite the fluid, broke
the silence as I could imagine her sitting in there drinking a glass of tea and
smoking a cigarette. I rose up and uncovered myself to go join her thinking I
could comfort her in some way or just to share a moment of quietness together.
As I got up on my knees to stand I could see into the kitchen then from around
the corner of the living room. There at the kitchen table was my uncle Fred,
sitting in the chair wearing only his white underpants, a glass of milk in one
hand and a Belair cigarette in the other. I sat there on my haunches watching
him with fascination and remembering him during all the summers I had spent
there with this family that he always use to get up in the middle of the night
and have a glass of milk and smoke a few cig’s, all the while sitting in his
underwear. I didn’t want to move, but only waited and observed while he finished
his milk and put out the butt. He then turned my way, smiled at me, got up,
scooted the chair back into place under the table and retreated back into the
bedroom. It was then I got up to investigate and saw the empty Tupperware glass
with a thin film of milk still clinging to the sides and bottom and it was still
chilled from its previous contents. The butt still smoldered in the ashtray next
to his Zippo lighter that had a tiny fly-fishing lure suspended in some type of
liquid in the bottom of it.
I didn’t mention this for several years until one holiday I was visiting at my
aunts again and we all sort of started talking about ghosts. The whole family
had admitted to seeing Fred numerous times since his death, roaming around the
house, even outside on the patio in the porch swing. David’s ghost had been seen
also. (See the story above, “A Hand On My Shoulder”.) The house to this day
still remains in the family even though my aunt has moved away and remarried.
And the ghosts of Fred and David can still be seen and heard throughout the
entire home.
-Jan
Thompson.
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