My Personal Experiences Part One

Most people wonder why the paranormal fascinates me.  I'm not religious, I don't really even believe in God or the devil, so you would think that I would be the last person to buy into this kind of new age nonsense, right?

The truth is, I grew up with it.  The paranormal has been normal to me since I was a kid.  Now, I'm not saying that I'm sensitive and I'm not arrogant enough to assume that I am important enough for a ghost to follow me around all of my life -- all I can really do is relate my experiences to you before time washes them away.  A lot of these I've never told before and I think it's important that I do.

One of the very first things I can ever remember happening to me was when I was very young.  Myself, my mother and father and two cousins lived in a two-room house in Texas.  We were poor but didn't know it because it was really the only thing that we did know.  The sleeping arrangements in the house we starting to become problematic, especially in 1977 when my mother announced that another baby was on the way.

My grandfather and my father started work on an extra room. It was large enough to accommodate plenty of kids and solve our space problems forever (particularly since another two babies were going to show up a few years later).  I was about seven when the room was completed and we moved in shortly afterwards.

I'm not sure exactly when strange things started to happen in the extra room and, to this day, I don't know why they happened in that extra room at all.  Papaw died in 1981, but I never had the feeling that he was the one behind the haunting.  To tell you the truth, I'm not even sure that whatever or whoever was behind it was good or bad.  I still don't know.

One day, I was playing in my room.  If I remember correctly, I was playing "The Dukes of Hazzard" with my matchbox cars, recreating stunts I had seen on the show.  All of the sudden, I was struck - very hard - on the back to the point that I fell forward from being seated Indian style.

At first, I thought that I had been hit by one of my cousins and turned around to confront them, but the only thing behind me, resting on the ground, was my metal Tonka truck that had been across the room.

My back hurt and I was certain that I had scratches from where the truck had hit me. I remember distinctly the pain in my shoulder blades as I was a rather boney kid.

I was alone.  No one else was there.

I immediately went to my mom.  I don't remember running because, I suppose, even then this was something I was used to.  I don't even remember being scared.  If I had reason not to be afraid - my prior experiences - I don't remember them, but I know this wasn't the first time something like this had happened.

I found my mother in the kitchen and told her about what had happened the best way my naive five-year-old brain could say it.

"Mom, God just threw my truck at me!"

My mother, preparing dinner, hardly gave me a look.  "God wouldn't throw something at you," she said, "It must have been the devil."

Sufficed to say, I didn't sleep very well that night.

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The Mists of Mystery
September, 2014
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