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Inexplicable Occurrences

My Experiences with

the World of the Supernatural

Calvin A Johnson

Copyright 2017©CalvinAJohnson

All rights reserved by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

Dedication and Acknowledgments

This book is dedicated to the following persons who helped me make it a reality!

Phyllis Burgess: Thank you so much for finding me a safe harbor in Stamford. CT with Grace E. Collins Johnson and Wesley Johnson. I was sorry that meeting you near the end of your life left us little time to talk. I am happy you knew there were no hard feelings. We will meet again.

Grace and Wesley Johnson: I was so lucky to have landed in your home. Grace Johnson loved me and disciplined me and encouraged me to excel in life. Who Calvin A. Johnson became I owe to Grace, more than any single person I have ever met. I have come to realize more than anyone in my life she understood me best.

John Gawlak: Through all the hard times I experienced in Stamford, CT, you were a true friend. I owe you so very much because in life we all need that one friend who will never turn their back on you. If not for you I would never have given writing a second thought.

Rose Putnam: Many thanks for making me recognize I could become a good writer. We shared some experiences of a paranormal nature made me feel comfortable in discussing mine. I wish you continued success with your Children Fantasy books.

Linda Barton: What can I say but thank you a thousand times over for helping bring this book to fruition! I am truly happy we’ve been able to share information on the paranormal. I would encourage readers interested in this subject to read your books.

Maria Fosco-Rantz: You are one of the most creative and yet down to earth people I’ve ever met. Thank you so much for taking time out to read my stories and give me feedback. You cannot imagine how much you helped me in assessing how to communicate with an audience. What can I say but hugs my dear!

Angela Salvatore: I have enjoyed being able to discuss how best to make readers aware of my inner feelings and perceptions. Your assistance has been invaluable. Thanks for being a marvelous and concerned friend for 40-plus years.

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Table of Contents

Title Page, Copyright Page,

Dedications, Table of Contents

Paranormal, The Grim Reaper Played Left Field,

Something Evil in the Wind 1, Something Evil in the Wind 2,

A Case for Teleportation? Climbing Back from the Edge

Kitty Prologue, A Long Overdue Goodbye, Kitty Epilogue

Russ: My Friend, 1974 66th and Broadway NYC

Somewhere a Clock Hand Turns


Late March 1952

I was five-years-old when I had my first paranormal experience. My mom's sister, Aunt Jack who lived in Washington D.C. had come for a visit. Mom was excited to get to see her sister, and so was I. Aunt Jack was such an entertaining lady. When she told a story, she always made the characters come to life. She also had a uniquely clever and creative sense of humor. Dad, on the other hand, did not like the reality he had to move out of his room and bed.

Once Aunt Jack had unpacked her bags and settled into the backroom of the house, we ate dinner. Knowing Dad was not pleased with the fact he would be sleeping in my room, Mom had made his favorite dinner of boiled pig’s feet and collard greens with potato salad and corn on the cob. She had told him since he needed to be up so early in the morning for work, sleeping in my room would work out the best. She said that way he would not disturb the rest of us when he left for work. The expression on his face let her know he was not pleased, but he knew it was best not to upset Mom by arguing.

Once we were all seated at the dinner table, Mom handed a bowl of the pig’s feet to Dad. Picking up a bottle of brown vinegar, Dad poured it over the pig’s feet. He poured so much of the foul-smelling liquid I thought certainly it would run over the side of the bowl and onto the table.

Aunt Jack glanced over at Dad and said with a playful grin on her face, “Johnson, should I go to the store and get a couple more bottles of vinegar?”

Dad did not respond, but I smiled at her comment. I knew Aunt Jack was exploding some levity on a man whose hardscrabble backwoods of South Carolina lifestyle, rarely had much humor in it.

Mom knew Pig’s Feet was not on any menu of mine. The reality was if God had issued a directive to eat Pig’s Feet my response would have been “How much time do I have to do in Purgatory?” I was thankful when Mom set a plate of fried, breaded Cod Fish down in front of me.

Pulling his attention away from his meal, Dad glanced over at me and grunted, “You should eat this. It’ll make a man of you, Boy.”

My Dad liked to say that whenever it was something I did not want to eat. I returned his gaze and shrugged my shoulders, “I just want to play baseball, Dad.”

I received no response.


After dinner, we all settled down for the evening. Mom and Aunt Jack went to the back bedroom where she would be sleeping. Dad had decided it was best to keep a low profile. You could tell he was not pleased, but he kept any comments to himself. I’m sure he was not happy with being kicked out of his bed, but I was enjoying every moment.

I could tell Aunt Jack being at our house made my Mom happy. I could hear them talking and laughing from the back bedroom. I remember hearing them talk about all the fun times they had as children. Then the topic changed to how much the family had grown over the years with all the marriages and children. I must admit that listening to them made me smile. The memory of their voices that night has always held a special fondness in my heart.


Realizing they would probably talk late into the night, I decided to go to bed. I must admit I was not thrilled about sleeping in my parent’s bedroom. I always had the feeling of being watched when I was in that room. I cannot explain it, but for as long as I can remember that uneasy feeling had always been there. Goosebump City describes perfectly how I felt.

I remember the previous year when I was four-years-old of having a strong sense of not being alone whenever I was in their bedroom. I would get the weirdest feeling and rush out of the room as quickly as possible if one of my parents was not there with me. Strange things always seemed to happen in that room.

Whenever my mom did the laundry, she would iron everything that had been hung out to dry. When she finished a load of ironing, she would stack everything neatly in a big wicker basket and typically have me carry the laundry upstairs.

Depending on whose clothes were in the basket I would go to either my room or my parent’s room, and place the laundry on the bed to be sorted into the dresser draws. I was responsible for putting my clothes away, and my mom would take care of theirs.

One afternoon, I was taking a full wicker basket of laundry to my parent’s room. I walked into the room like usual when I noticed the mattress was depressed as if someone was sitting on the bed. I inhaled, holding my breath, afraid to breathe. My mind spun wildly with thoughts of what to do. Should I run? Should I scream? I wasn’t sure how to react.

Not wanting to get close to that part of the bed, I took the laundry out of the basket and placed it at the foot of the bed. Once I had finished, I ran downstairs and told my mom what had happened.

“You needn’t worry. This house is old and old houses sometimes have secrets.” I know she was trying to ease my fear, but I will never forget how disturbed I was at that moment.

About three weeks later Mom again it asked me to take a load of laundry up to her bedroom.

The sunlight streamed through the three large windows in their bedroom, giving the room a warm glow. My mind was caught up in the moment when I looked over at the bed and saw the unthinkable… both sides of the bed were depressed. Setting the basket down on the end of the bed, I quickly ran downstairs and breathlessly told my mom what I had seen.

“Calvin, some things in this world cannot be explained. Try not to be afraid as they will not hurt you.”

I wanted to believe her, but I was not entirely sold on the idea of whatever was up there would not harm me. I just wanted whatever it was up there would go away.


I remember going to bed around 9 o’clock the night my aunt came to visit. My mom and aunt had closed the door to the backroom so they could talk, and my dad was snoring away in my room. I liked the king-sized bed in my parent’s bedroom because it was so comfortable. So, after a few minutes, I fell asleep, hoping nothing strange would happen.


The next thing I remember was the morning sunlight pouring through the windows in the front of the bedroom. I was happy I had slept the entire night, and honestly, a little surprised nothing had happened. Enjoying the moment, I stretched-out in the middle of the king-sized bed, and for some reason, as I was peering into the closet I knew something was in there. Suddenly, the hair on my arms felt magnetized, and my blood turned ice cold.

Then the unthinkable happened. I saw the dresses hung so neatly begin to move. It was as though some invisible woman was checking price tags on the sleeves of each dress.

The closet light was off which meant the only light in the room was the sunlight streaming through the windows. I glanced over at the door and realized it was shut. I had left it open, so my mom must have closed it while I was sleeping, allowing me to sleep in late.

The primal instinct to run was overwhelming as I watched the sleeves on the dresses flicked the way women do while shopping at Macy’s.

Run, my mind screamed. However, I found myself unable to move for several moments. Fear had locked me into inertia.

Glancing over at the door, I wondered if it would open when I pulled the door handle. However, what happened next removed all doubt of escape. I watched as an unseen force pulled the string on the closet light fixture, causing the light bulb to blaze brightly. Without a second thought, I leaped from the bed as if rocket launchers were attached to my feet. One and a half steps and my hands gripped the door. I yanked on the door, and it opened easily. I literally jumped 3 steps at a time until I hit the hall floor. I then rushed into the kitchen and sat on the chair in the middle of the table.

“What do you want for breakfast?” my mom asked, not seeing my frightened expression.

My aunt; however, carefully examined my face. Sitting in silence, I struggled, trying to decide if I should tell them what had just happened. Would they believe me?

“Are you okay?” Aunt Jack held my gaze. “You can tell me anything. What’s bothering you?”

Realizing I was unable to conceal my emotions any longer, I decided to tell them what I had experienced. After sharing what had happened, they both exchanged telling glances. Seeing this let me know they understood what I had seen.

“There is nothing in this house that can hurt you,” Mom tried to ease my fear.

“Mom, how do you know it can’t hurt me? Whatever it is? It shouldn’t be here.” How could she be so calm about this, I wondered?

“Let me make you some breakfast, and then we’ll talk more on this subject.” Mom then stood and walked over to the refrigerator.

After cooking my breakfast, she sat a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast with a cup of hot tea down in front of me.

Sitting at the table, Mom glanced over at Aunt Jack, who nodded.

“There is an old spinster lady who lives here with us.”

“Mom, what’s a spinster?”

“A spinster is a woman who never married. This woman was never married or had children. She did have a serious passion for buying beautiful dresses, though.”

Being a child of five years of age, all I could think to say was, “Why can't she shop somewhere else”?

Hearing this statement brought smiles and laughter from my mom and aunt.


I lived in that house until I was thirty-seven years old with many more events taking place. However, I do not believe it was just one entity roaming the house. One event that stands out in my memory was the night when an evil entity entered our realm through a portal from another dimension

It was a night I’ll never forget, and years later, it started me on the road to research these bizarre incidents. I had no idea on that Saturday morning there were many inexplicable occurrences which lay before me, nor did I understand how much knowledge I would gain about the world in which I live.

The Grim Reaper Played Left Field

The summer season on the East Coast around New York City tends to be hot and humid from July through the beginning of September. The weather offered one a good reason to be outside playing baseball or softball, or golf. I was introduced to both baseball and softball during the summer of 1956 when I began playing baseball at Woodside Park in Stamford, CT. Saturday mornings was the day my Farm League Team, The Bears, played organized baseball. After the routine of school and delivering papers, I looked forward to competing in baseball. Admittedly, I was a bit of a baseball fanatic as I watched baseball on TV every time a game was broadcast. I collected baseball cards of Professionals from a number of teams. My favorite team was The NY Yankees. My second favorite team was The Brooklyn Dodgers. Jackie Robinson was the first Black Professional Baseball Player in the Big Leagues. The added significance of Jackie Robinson was the fact he lived in my hometown. My parents never missed a game whether it was on TV or Radio because they were die-hard Brooklyn Dodgers fans.

Three blocks from my home was a softball field called Hatch Field, some kids started calling it Hatchet Field and the name stuck. One Saturday afternoon game began late in the day around six p.m. We, kids, knew we had at least two solid hours of daylight left to play. The games were not organized which meant there was no adult supervision. I remember the year as 1959, and it was a typical, relentlessly hot and humid August day. My best pal at that time, Horace, stopped by my house and knocked on our front door. My Mom answered the door. “Hello, Mrs. Johnson, I was wondering if Calvin could go play softball at Hatch field?”

“Calvin is cleaning up after dinner, Horace, but as soon as he finishes, he can go play.”

I quickly finished cleaning up the kitchen, emptied the garbage, and then washed my hands in the kitchen sink.

“Bye, Mom, and don’t worry I’ll be home by 8:30 pm.”

Okay, Calvin, you two be safe and don’t get into any trouble.”

Both Horace and I said, “alright” then we began walking down Rose Park Ave toward Richmond Hill Ave. Hatch Field was located two blocks up Richmond Hill Ave.

Horace, did you have any trouble with your paper route today?”

“No, it was an easy day. You know the papers didn’t have many ads, and most everyone came out to get their paper without me going up to the house,” Horace grinned.

“Yeah, I had a pretty easy day, too. One customer even invited me in for lunch, but I told her I was in a hurry. She’s an elderly lady, and I think she doesn’t have much company. Her daughter shows up once a week if she’s lucky she told me.”

When we entered the park, there were several kids already on the field. They were leisurely throwing the softball and hitting fly balls to the outfield. Horace was an excellent softball player. He stood about six feet tall and weighed approximately one hundred fifty pounds. Horace was a dark chocolate complexion with short hair and had a slightly stern look.

I was five feet nine and weighed about two hundred pounds, and those pounds needed a good workout, so I was happy to be playing softball. I was also the complete opposite of Horace with my light brown skin, slightly pug nose and a perpetual smile. Most kids those days had short haircuts, mine was a flattop. I was a good player also, and all the other kids knew I was a home run threat the same as Horace.

We were playing guys who lived on Spruce Street. The people who lived on Spruce Street fell into two categories. The first category were homeowners, and their part of Spruce was called New Spruce Street. The second part of Spruce Street was populated by Blue Collar and below the poverty line families. I had many nasty run-ins with several members of one family from the second part of Spruce Street. I always enjoyed playing ball against them because most of them felt they were better ballplayers than me. I had experience playing organized baseball and being coached by knowledgeable men gave me a bit of an advantage.

I had been at Hatch field for maybe ten minutes, and the players were now showing up rapidly. It looked to me the game would be a very competitive softball match. As the teams flipped a coin to see who went to bat first, I was confident our team would win the game.

In addition to Horace, there was an older guy, by several years, named Joe on our team. Joe was six feet one and around one hundred sixty pounds. Joe had medium brown skin and was well built. He typically carried himself with a laid-back persona. When the Black kids from my street made fun of me because I was adopted, Joe never participated in the abuse.

One day several Black kids were making fun of me. I was six years old, and Joe told them to cut it out.

Afterward, Joe said, “Calvin, are you adopted?”

“Joe, I don’t know.”

“I see, well, it’s nothing to worry about or be ashamed of even if you are.”

“Joe, what these kids think never upsets me.”

“Good for you, Calvin.”

I always believed Joe had that athletic skills that should have landed him on an organized baseball team. However, to my knowledge, he never attempted to try out for a team. What would have been evident to any coach was Joe had a strong arm, ran with great speed, and had a fast bat. Knowing he was on our team made us a real power threat from the point of hitting a softball out of the park. The two best players on the other team, in my opinion, were brothers, Clarence and Tommy. Both of them were from the Deep South. Clarence was truly talented. He was probably six feet three with a lanky body and very light brown skin. He also had freckles and seemed to be a nice guy. Clarence always appeared to have a preoccupied look on his face but could break into a welcoming smile when engaged in conversation. When he played center field, he reminded me of Willie Mays with his easy loping running style.

One play Clarence made has always stood out in my mind. A guy hit the ball into the deepest part of center field. I thought the ball was going to hit the center field fence. However, Clarence got on his horse and ran the ball down just before it hit the fence. Then he threw a strike from center field to stop a player going from second base to third base. That throw was unbelievable.

Tommy was the younger of the two. I figured Tommy to be around ten or eleven years old. He had dark brown skin, and shorter with a sturdy torso. Tommy was about five feet nine and roughly one hundred fifty pounds. He was gregarious compared to Clarence. Also, he was above average as an athlete but still not in his brother’s class.

One of the other guys I knew and got along with pretty good was Tyrone. Tyrone was five-nine or so and weighted maybe one hundred thirty-five pounds. He was a good athlete and tended to be one of the top choices when teams were being picked.

After the teams were chosen, our team won the coin flip, and the game began. Almost at the speed of light, we were ahead by three runs. The first time I came to bat no one was on base. Horace and Joe were cheering me on to hit a home run. Clarence told the right fielder to get back against the fence in right field as I was a threat to hit the ball out. I batted left-handed and foul popped the first pitch over the back of the batting cage. The next pitch I really hit solid, and it went predictably over the right-field fence. The right fielder had to run out of the park and retrieve the ball which was rolling down the street. Now the score was 5-0. Next up at bat was Horace, who was then followed by Joe. Horace hit a double then Joe came to bat and hit a shot into the playground of the school across the street. Everyone in attendance was wowed. It was a prodigious home run by any standard. Our opponent only scored 1 run when they came to bat in the first inning.

Next time up, I hit a single and was standing on first base. Horace had come to bat again, and he hit a ball into the deep woods and shrubs of Hatch Field. Left field in Hatch Field had a four-foot high wall of marbled stone that ran across the entire length of the park. Once you jumped over the wall, you were in thick shrubs and bushes. Additionally, there were eight to ten Charter Oak Trees inside the steel fence that surrounded the perimeter of the wooded area.

The trees did an excellent job of blocking sunlight, and young lovers used the area in the shrubs for sexual encounters. To the left of the batting cage were vegetable gardens cultivated by the resident homeowners of the area. The entrance of Hatch Field ran parallel to a street called Richmond Hill Ave.

About fifty feet behind the back fence of Hatch Field was a Holy Roller Church. When Horace hit the softball to left field, someone had to go find it. The guy who ran after the ball was a kid named Tyrone. When he jumped over the wall, it seemed to take forever to find the softball. It felt as if an eternity had passed and still no Tyrone.

I was standing on third base and all of a sudden, Tyrone was standing in the opening near the wall. It was as though all the blood had been drained from his body by the expression on his face.

What I sensed was a tangible fear. A number of the kids were screaming, “Tyrone where is the ball?”

He was just standing there, and then he blurted out, “There is a dead man on the fence!”

That one sentence held a nightmarish fear in its utterance.

I said, “Tyrone what are you talking about?”

He didn’t answer. He only stood at the wall looking straight ahead but not at anyone in particular.

I noticed right away Tyrone didn’t have the ball with him. A few of the kids thought Tyrone was involved in some type of humor. I began inching my way toward the marbled stone wall to improve my view.

Tyrone reissued the statement, “There’s a dead man on the fence!”

Many of the kids began walking toward the wall. I had no intention of going over the wall and into the area Tyrone was now pointing too. One guy named Denny jumped the wall and headed into the wooded area. Denny had a rail-thin body and when he walked a strong wind could have blown him clear to New York City.

I angled to the far right of Tyrone to get a better view of the back fence. The next thing I saw was Denny running out of the wooded area. He looked like a Jesus Lizard skittering across The Amazon River. Denny probably set some type of speed record for running two full blocks and then disappearing from sight.

I saw the body hanging from the back fence of Hatch Field. The revelation sent a chill through me. Several of the kids went into the dense brush to make sure what Tyrone had said was for real. Quickly, those kids came sprinting out of those woods and shrubs like scalded cats.

They were screaming at the top of their lungs, “A dead man is on the fence!”

Horace and Joe walked over to where I was standing, and they looked at me. I was trying not to cry because I felt so bad for the man on the fence. I said to Horace and Joe, “If you come over this way you can see the man. He’s hanging on the fence with a rope around his neck, and he is wearing a dark gray suit. It looks like the birds and insects have done a number on his face.”

Horace said, “I’m going to get a little closer.”

Both Horace and Joe jumped the wall and began moving closer to the man hanging on the fence.

I said, “I’m going to get help.”

“Where are you going to get help?” Horace asked.

“I’m going down to the barbershop.”

I bolted for the street. A half block down Richmond Hill Ave was the barbershop. The owner's name was Walter. He was an African-American man. My recollection of him was of an excessively stern man with a strong penchant for being violent. I had witnessed Walter dragging and punching his stepson one rainy night. Also, I had witnessed him beating his wife. He punched her like he was hitting a man one winter night walking down Rose Park Ave.

I had just arrived home from delivering papers, and the sight of what Walter was doing to his wife left me with a sick feeling. I wanted to help her but was much too young to do anything. The poor woman was crying. Walter was a violent tormentor as far as I was concerned. Unless I was going to get a haircut, there was no way I would stop and engage Walter in conversation. I knocked on the Barber Shop door, and when he opened the door I blurted out, “Mr. Walter, a dead man is hanging on the fence in Hatch Field next to the Holy Roller Church.”

Walter looked at me and said, “Calvin, you’re not playing some kid’s game, are you? You know I don’t tolerate any kid games.”

One more time I said, “A dead man is hanging on the fence at Hatch Field next to the Holy Roller Church.”

Okay, I’m going to call the police right now.”

After I watched him phone the police, I walked halfway up to the park feeling as though I had done my part to help this poor, unfortunate man. Five minutes later two police cars rolled up and stopped in front of The Hatch Field Gate. I watched as two police officers entered the park. There were still some kids lingering around. The next thing I saw was an Ambulance outside of the park fence. The two police officers plus medics carried a stretcher with the body to the Ambulance and then put it inside.

Later I heard Walter had said to someone in his shop, “Yes, there is a dead man up there in the park. The police are there and taking someone out black bagged.”

Death left me with the feeling of irreversible finality. No one could change what had happened to the man who had decided to hang himself. There was something about this man’s demise that scared me. There was such a sense of dread. I had this mental picture of death walking around and smiling as he decided to choose a victim. The thought of The Grim Reaper selecting a victim felt like icy tongs squeezing the blood and oxygen out of my heart.

There was a putrid stillness the Grim Reaper had assigned to the left field fence of Hatch Field. What started out as a fun softball game that August day, had somehow triggered an unrepentant alarm in our young brains. The alarm warned us that inexorable and hostile permanence had now bludgeoned its way into our lives. The kids who saw the man on the fence had seen a body with rotting flesh, and empty eye sockets.

Nature was disposing of the body in the way it has always done. I’d often wondered why the man chose to hang himself on a fence fifty-feet from the back of a church. Perhaps the man was angry with God. Many of guys who had seen the aftermath of mortality up close and unprepared by a funeral home had to be sedated. I had trouble sleeping for a week, although I didn’t need to be tranquilized.

The effect of seeing death so starkly naked succeeded in stripping away the final vestige of our childhood. All of us became vulnerable that day, and never again would the world we lived in be friendly and forgiving. The carefree lives of a group of youngsters had burst like a balloon, and a balloon refuses to burst into sections.

Something in The Wind Part 1

Death Most Certainly Can Ride the Wind

A personal observation:

An event is something that occurs in a specific place during a particular interval of time. A series of events that all appear linked in some manner is most likely, heading to a specific conclusion. The conclusion is apt to be beyond human control.

The population of Stamford Connecticut in 1960 was slightly over ninety thousand residents. It was a quiet Blue-Collar Community.

My home was a Red Shingled House at 21 Rose Park Ave and was almost in the middle of the street. Most of the homes were modest and comfortable.

Many of the families on the street grew vegetables in their backyards, and quite a few families had grape arbors from which they made wine.

My mom enjoyed making homemade wine and grape jelly from our grape arbor.

The beauty of Rose Park Ave was the fact Italians, Blacks, Irish, and Spanish lived on the same street without any puerile racial conflict.

If you were a child, you addressed adults by Mr. or Miss/Mrs.

I was an adopted child from Bermuda. My parents were Grace & Wesley Johnson. I had no idea I was adopted until I was six years old.

The African-American kids kept telling me I was adopted and they thought it was funny. Each time I was bombarded with the “you’re adopted” derision I would smile and shrug my shoulders. I was a matter of fact about it because I did not know what the term meant.

Once I decided to research the term adopted I discovered what it meant, “To rear as one’s own child.” I was still a matter of fact. What I knew was I lived in a good home my parents treated me fine, and I liked the school I attended because I had made friends easily.

When I began St. John’s Elementary School, I was one of four or five other African-American children who attended the school.

A few days after I had investigated the term adopted, Mom called me into the living room. Someone must have made her aware of how the Black kids were derogatory toward me. I went to the living room, and both Mom and Dad were waiting on the couch.

I was standing in front of my parents when Mom said, “Calvin, have the Black kids told you that you are adopted?”

“Yes, they have Mom.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“Yes, Mom I looked it up in the dictionary.”

“Are you upset that you’re adopted?

“No Mom, not at all. I knew the kids who kept trying to upset me were doing it to be mean.

“Are you sure this has not upset you?”

“Mom, I know those kids told me the truth because they wanted to upset me, but I’m not.”

Dad nodded in agreement, “People try to be mean sometimes because they’re jealous, so don’t hang around with that type of child.”

“Alright, Dad, I’ll be fine.”

Mom then explained, “Calvin, your biological mother was financially unable to care for two sons, and so she made the best decision she possibly could for you.

I was always a low-key person, and the awakening was an easy experience for me.

Over the next few weeks, Mom gave me quite a bit of attention. When she went shopping, and to her church, she took me with her. I understood Mom was just making sure I was not feeling any emotional strain.

Dad was a southern guy from South Carolina, and he was thirteen years older than Mom. He had very light brown skin and a medium patrician nose with naturally straight hair. He was five feet eleven and clearly had recent Caucasian DNA in his family gene pool.

Mom was five feet four with a polished light coffee bean skin color. She had a slight pug nose, laughing eyes, and a spontaneous smile. What I remember the most about Dad’s relationship with Mom was how attentive he was to her. When he was going to the store, he always asked if she wanted anything. Dad would tend to bring back things from the store like flowers for the kitchen table. He also knew Mom loved chocolates so he would frequently bring a red box of chocolates for her. I learned those little things were a big hit with women. The attention worked both ways though. When Dad was going to Ebbets Field to watch his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers, Mom would fix a picnic bag loaded with fried chicken, potato salad, and biscuits.

Dad was a WW1Vetran and suffered from emphysema, and in addition to this, he had severe arthritis.

Dad’s breathing problem stemmed from smoking four packs of unfiltered Camel Cigarettes a day. His lungs were heavily congested, causing him coughing fits that wracked his body in spasms. However, the smoking was so addictive he couldn’t seem to stop and would be trying to light up while having a coughing fit. Alcohol was another addition Dad had to contend with daily. He alternated between wine and Four Roses Bourbon each day.

I suspect the drinking helped to numb the pain of arthritis and helped him sleep at night. I think Dad had flashbacks from being at war because often he and a pal would mention their time in the war. When his pal came to the house, he would send me out to play, which led me to believe they were going to discuss adult matters.

I knew Dad had three serious problems to cope with and I hoped I never had to deal with them.

Dad was rarely upset with Mom about anything, but I drew a good deal of his attention. I tried to keep my distance as best I could but some days were impossibly difficult to handle.

As with most 12-year-old boys, I was not the most perceptive in recognizing Dad’s mood swings. When I knew he was upset, I would go outside if possible. The most important thing was to keep my distance when he was having a tantrum.

The Sisters of Mercy were the Order of Nuns at my school. I had two basic priorities when I was twelve; going to school and delivering papers.

I had a paper route which took me three hours to complete. Since I was attending Catholic School, we got out about an hour and a half earlier than Public School. I was able to start my paper route as soon as the papers were dropped off.

I was happy to deliver papers after dealing with a super strict group of Nuns each day. I was earning good money on my paper route. I loved the feeling of actually working because I felt I was doing something constructive with my life. Come rain or shine my one hundred and twenty customers always received their papers. The discipline and structure I received at home and school made me a very dependable young person.

The home I lived in had three rooms upstairs, a front bedroom, middle bedroom, and a back bedroom facing the woods behind our house.

Many unexplained incidents had taken place in our home for at least six months, and the incidents kept me on edge.

I was organizing my closet after dinner one evening in late April. I had all of my Catholic School uniforms hung on the right side of my closet. The left side had my leisure clothes and in the middle, were my 3 suits. The top rung of the closet held several boxes of neatly stacked Dell Comic Books, i.e., Superman, Batman, and Aquaman. The middle portion of the top of the closet held boxes of Top Baseball Cards and a dress Fedora Hat. On the floor were two pair of dress shoes, a pair of sneakers, a pair of moccasin-type footwear, and three baseball bats, four baseballs, a pair of baseball spikes and a baseball glove. I had played both Farm league and Little-League Baseball.

I sat on my bed which was to the right of the closet. The closet door wasn’t locked, but the door was nearly closed. As I sat on the bed, the door opened about six inches. I had the feeling a cat had just walked out of the closet. The problem was we didn’t have a cat. I went to the closet door and opened it then I checked the closet space. NOTHING. Surprisingly, I wasn’t scared, but I was perplexed.

A few days later the door opened again in the same manner. Then one day the door closed and I actually heard the lock click in place. Although the closet incident didn’t shock me and appeared forgettable, that place where our survival instinct exists was on full blown RED ALERT.

I knew something terrible had been set into motion because I could feel it. It felt like some living, breathing, negative force had been set loose. I wasn’t sure what to do about it, so I just carried on as usual.

The next incident took place was in early May. I had gotten home from school about 1:30 pm. I opened the front door with my house key and saw Mom cleaning up the kitchen.

“Hi, Mom, how was your day?”

“Things are good, Honey. How was school?”

“Mom, every day when school’s out I’m happy.”

As she laughed with me, she told me to look in the fridge because there was a tuna fish sandwich waiting for me.

After retrieving the sandwich and a cold glass of milk, I took a seat at the kitchen table. While I ate, I continued talking with my mother who was now washing the dishes.

Suddenly, without warning, the light string in the dining room was jerked on/off twice violently. Also, the light string was swaying wildly from side to side.

Mom and I shared glances and then she shrugged her shoulders. “I guess the ghosts are restless today.”

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