I’ve been wanting to write this post for a while and with Halloween just around the corner, I figured now is a good of time as any. I actually relayed this story to the boys in the Igloo during my first interview with them on the second Passport episode, but it inevitably became, I believe, the first official lost interview. This wasn’t part of the large number of episodes that somehow got “misplaced” as most of those were retrieved. An event I am now calling “Episode-gate”. Catchy huh? No, my short interview was lost long beforehand, probably part of a cover up by the NSA/CIA/FBI and other three lettered acronymed government agencies in an attempt to keep the truth silenced. Or some stoner just accidently hit ‘delete’ instead of ‘save’. In either case, I hold out hope that my lost interview, along with the others from Episode-gate will one day be retrieved an released to the public at large as “Grimerica: The Lost Tapes”. But until that happens, I will re-tell my story here. It is of my first and most memorable paranormal experience. I would also like to mention some possible explanations that I’ve come up with over the many years of me contemplating exactly what was happening to me in my early childhood. Maybe you guys can give me a new perspective on the subject.
“Oh. Um. Yeah. No… You’re definitely crazy.”
I was young. Between the ages of six and seven. At the time, my father was incarcerated leaving only my mother, my older sister, my two younger brothers and myself. We lived in a trailer park across from Don Morris Memorial Park in the small town of Chelan, Washington. Now seeing as this happened over twenty years ago, some of the details are vague in my memory. What I do remember, is that my siblings and I shared the bedroom at the end of the hallway that separated the front of the trailer from the back. I also remember that all of the time that I lived there, on most nights, I would wake up while the rest of my family was still in deep slumber, I would gaze down that hallway and I would see the shadow of a little boy just slightly smaller than myself walking toward our bedroom. By shadow, I mean a dark, translucent figure that would partially block out any light that it moved across or in front of. I knew that it was of a boy because of its build, its silhouette. And being of such a young age, this of course frightened me, but what came next always scared me more.
Yes. I was young. Very young. Right at about the age where most people say they have their first memory and I have this very strong memory of an almost nightly event. That’s the first red flag right? I would question it if it wasn’t me. In fact, I DO question it. I definitely lean toward this as a possible factor in this event or more appropriately, the memory of this event. Maybe it was something I saw on T.V. or in a movie. Maybe my imagination turned into an overly active one and I fabricated this “shadow boy”. Maybe. Maybe I imagined what happened next too.
Alright. This one could’ve been me. But it explains my bed wetting problem.
The little shadow wasn’t alone. Once it had entered our room, I would hide beneath my covers leaving just enough of my face exposed to breathe fresh air and to look at our bedroom wall. On the wall, I would see a shadow much larger than the first just going to town on the smaller one. By that, I mean that the larger of the two would relentlessly beat the little shadow. I remember so much aggression and anger being unleashed on the smaller shadow. I never saw the big shadow like I did the smaller one. Just the shadows of the shadows on the wall. If that makes sense. The beating would eventually stop and the shadows would disappear. I never saw them disappear, I would just notice that they were gone. But if I hadn’t fallen asleep before then, it would only repeat. I forced myself to ignore the ruthless act taking place just on the over side of my covers and I would eventually pass out. Looking back, I’m assuming out of fear.
And this is how it went almost every night. Some people might call my experience a ‘residual haunting’. For those of you don’t know, a residual haunting as opposed to an ‘intelligent haunting’, is more like trapped energy than and interactive entity. You might even call it a glitch in the matrix, comparable to a record player continuing to skip in the same place over and over again. Residual hauntings are often explained by British parapsychologist Thomas Charles Lethbridge’s ‘Stone Tape Theory’. He first proposed this theory in 1961 and submitted the idea that what we perceive as ghosts weren’t actually spirits of deceased humans but energy that has been stored in stones and other objects such as buildings as the result of an extremely traumatic or emotional event. I’ve always had an issue with this theory. Well, that’s not true. Not always. When I first heard this theory, I thought that if fit perfectly as an explanation to this experience. A whole back story evolved in my head where, before we lived at the residence, an abusive father would always take out his aggression on his poor son. The emotion and trauma endured by the little boy coupled with the anger and hatred of the father left an impression in the walls of my room. Boom. Case closed. Ideally. Unfortunately, the more I looked into the Stone Tape Theory, the more I became disenchanted with the idea. Quite simply, there is no way to scientifically explain how information can be stored inside stone or other inanimate objects such as buildings. Unless of course the building was constructed of compact discs or tape reels. Now I know what you’re thinking. There is no way to explain ghosts exist either. And that’s true. As far as science is concerned, ghosts do not exist. And while science does not yet recognized the existence of what the world calls ghosts, I have heard far more convincing theories about what they are and how one comes to be than the Stone Tape Theory. I’m not completely writing it off as impossible; I like to keep an open mind and all. This is just this humble bloggers personal opinion. Moving on.
I eventually decided that I would try and prove (to myself at least) that I wasn’t just seeing things. I was going to meet the shadow in the hall. That night I didn’t sleep, I waited. I remember contemplating exactly what I was going to do but before I came to a somewhat logical way of handling the situation, it was time. I looked down the hall and the shadow was already on its way. I remember mustering all of my courage and, still shaking, I got out of my bed. I don’t remember if I tried talking to it or not. The bathroom light which was always on, gave enough visibility for me to KNOW that there was indeed something there. I met it at the entrance of the room. Still retaining my courage, I slowly reached my hand out to it. As soon, and I mean AS SOON as my hand should have touched it, it disappeared. This time I saw it. It was there and then it wasn’t. I stood there for a moment, confused mostly. I then crawled back into my bed. I remember smiling to myself being proud to have had the courage to do something like that. I thought that it was going to be okay. That it wouldn’t happen anymore. I was wrong. I fell asleep shortly after. I woke again a little bit later facing the bedroom wall. On the wall, I saw the large shadow again unleashing its anger onto the smaller one. I felt sad. I closed my eyes and forced myself back to sleep.
We eventually moved and that was the end of that chapter in my life. I remember driving by the trailer park a few years ago and saw what I thought was people tearing it down. I felt kind of happy when I saw that. I later found out that they were just renovating it. I never told my mother or my siblings about this when it was happening. Not until a few years ago I brought it up. They said that nothing ever happened to them there but it gave them the chills when they heard it nonetheless. So what was this? Shadow people? I’ve never heard of a shadow person experience like this. Repeating itself nightly and all. So what was it? Full disclosure: Like I mentioned before, my father was incarcerated and he was so for good reason. He was a drunk, an asshole and had a drug problem. He regularly beat on me, my mother and my siblings and we all were regularly witness to it. (Seriously not looking for any pity or sympathy and would appreciate it if none was given. Just wanted to give the whole story so let’s just stick with the story.) Now this bit of knowledge adds to this tale. Someone could make a legitimate argument that this and this alone could have caused enough emotional trauma in itself to cause me to imagine these shadow figures. I myself have considered this as an explanation. Let’s not forget that this all happened when I was in bed usually either going in or coming out of a sleep state. Anytime I hear that someone was in bed when something strange happened, it also sends up a red flag. Lots of things can happen in between the waking state and the sleeping one. But when it comes down to it, I always think back to my strongest memory of this whole debacle, and that was when I was awake. When I was alone with my thoughts trying to figure out what was happening in my room at night, I remember telling myself that I know the truth. Ghosts exist. I remember telling myself not to let anyone tell me otherwise because I know. I’ve seen it. I remember telling myself not to be fooled too. You might be thinking that those are some pretty deep thoughts for a six or seven year old. What can I say? Maybe I was a deep kid. Either way, I remember telling myself those things. Telling myself not to forget. I can almost remember what I was wearing. Red slick sweat pants with a multi-colored striped shirt. In some ways, this memory is more important than that of what happened to me. It kind of steered my course in life and my interest into the unexplained. I might not be here boring you with my thoughts if this never happened. Then where would you be? It’s important to note that I do still question hauntings. The existence of ghosts and other things that go bump in the night. Let’s face it, in this day and age, it’d be foolish not to. Confirmation bias is a bitch and I strive to remember that. Not so that other people can’t claim that I sway one way or another, but because I want to listen to my six or seven year old self and not be fooled and I also don’t want to forget. So that’s my origin story folks. Maybe not as cool as Wolverine but at least it’s not The Whizzer. Well that’s it for me. So until next time – Stay classy Grimerica.