Late night security is no different from any other late
night gig. It's pretty simple really.
I work as an unarmed security guard at a gas station next to a
casino by the border overnight. Usually the shift is pretty
uneventful honestly. There's more to do and more to
look for during the odd times I was put on days.
Nights though, where once my safe haven to get away from the
hustle of the tedious every day soon found me questioning
whether or not my particular site was something I should
abandoned. I'm not a weak man by any means.
I've seen my fair share of gruesome, grotesque and even
brutal things. I found myself in some pretty
unfavorable situations down the business end of a few, shall we
say, cordless hole punchers. Being smack dab by the border of
New York and Canada, my shifts usually included the occasional
visit from the Border Patrol or DEA.
Then again, also being on reservation land constitutes a
whole new host of rules altogether.
Not that these guys are coming in and monitoring my little
bitty gas station for the next kingpin or anything.
They're in and out, filling their gas tanks or grabbing a
few snacks before continuing on with their own shifts.
My shifts tend to be boring. In my line of work, boring is
the best thing you could wish for.
No paperwork, no reports, no cops, and no Yahoo with a hole
puncher looking to turn the place into the northern version
of the OK Corral. The drunks are easy.
These guys or gals would hobble in after a long night of
drinking and bedding at the casino.
They would use the restroom and buy themselves something to
snack on before taking off. Not often does one cause too
much of A ruckus, though. There was that one party bus,
about 25 people, all hammered beyond belief, puke and urine
all over the place. I pitied the poor soul that had
to clean it all up. But hey, as long as no one was
stealing or getting violent, I was more than entertained by the
slack jawed circus that played out in front of me.
Now the tweakers, they're not as easy to deal with.
I'd even take it a step further and say they're a downright pain
in my butt. They're the most prone to trying
to make off with something without paying for it, or the
most likely to do their best impression of being possessed by
the devil himself. They're even likely to try some
underhanded deal right in front of me, as if I'm oblivious to
the very clear baggie that just changed hands for a couple of
20s and maybe a 50. But what are you going to do?
The best I can do in that situation is take off my house
shoe and chase them off. One night I stood at my small
podium watching the last lingering souls drain out of the
parking lot. I was mentally preparing myself
for yet another eventless night. Technically, I'm always supposed
to stand up straight and alert. It makes the client feel safe,
one of my supervisors had told me before I was ever assigned to
this location. I took to leaning on a small
podium shaped display for lottery tickets.
It keeps the pressure off my back and the aches off my feet.
You'd think having memory foam insoles would help, but you'd be
amazed at how quickly they wear out.
The cashiers usually mingle about or float around aimlessly
behind the registers Around this time.
There's not much for them to do outside of tidying up and
counting their drawers. I've caught them in their little
rebellious routines, sneaking naps in the backroom or on
breaks. The last guy they had doing
security was none too keen on that, but I figured as long as
the active register had an attendee then all fine by me.
There is a guy though, one guy that my hand off supervisors
gave me a bit of a heads up on. He's not exactly playing with a
full deck if you catch my drift. Not sure if he ever was.
This guy looks harmless, confused even.
Usually sporting Gray sweatpants, slippers, and a
black T-shirt. He has a low buzz cut and
something of a stumbly beard. He never really made frequent
appearances at my bitty station, but when he did, the man brought
with him the heebie jeebies. He would just stare right past
the sliding automatic doors and straight into the station.
Not at anyone or anything in particular.
Phil, I think his name was. Or at least that's what the
girls at the station called him. His presence never bothered me
during the swing day shifts, but at night I kept an eye on him.
You ever get that feeling that something was watching you, but
you can't quite figure out from where?
Yeah, that's Phil with his dead eye gaze.
One night, Phil decided to ramp things up a notch.
The night was already pretty quiet for a Friday, but the all
too familiar sound of squad car sirens could be heard just up
the street. The girls seemed a little off
that night too. They kept looking at the sliding
doors of the station with a type of anxious anticipation that was
unusual for them. The manager on duty had asked me
to bump up my foot patrols from once every hour to once every
half hour. I obliged and marked it down in
the site log before grabbing my walkie-talkie and starting the
stroll through the lot and around the building.
Once outside I got a better look at all the commotion down the
street. Come to find out it wasn't just
one squad car but four of them and an ambulance.
The officers body language didn't exactly fill me with
confidence that whatever they were responding to had a happy
ending. What's going on out there?
The manager, Sarah asked over the radio.
At first I didn't say anything as I was still trying to wrap my
head around what I was seeing and if I had to worry about
locking down the station. 4 cop cars and an EMT, It looks like
none of them look happy. I finally responded.
I kept my eyes on the scene before me.
I felt a cold chill run up my spine, like someone just walked
over my grave without moving too fast.
I raised my walkie. Has anyone seen our favorite
tweaker tonight? I'm worried about him.
I tried to joke, but my voice held apprehension.
I thought I might know the answer, but I hoped I was wrong.
He hasn't been around for at least a day or so.
You think he's involved? Sarah chimed in.
I didn't respond straight away, but instead I turned my
attention just off to the left of the scene.
I caught a glimpse of someone slinking off toward the alley.
Hold on, I said, finally answering.
I'd move to get closer to the scene, but I knew in the back of
my mind if I ventured too far from my post Rd. patrol
management would have my badge inside of an hour.
At the corner I stood, eyes squinted, attempting to see
through the flashing red and blue lights and the decently
bright St. lights. Nothing moved.
With a step back, I glanced at the station to check, and again,
nothing. What's wrong?
Sarah crackled, scaring the bejesus out of me.
I thought I saw something. I answered back.
Sarah, being as beloved and sarcastic as she could ever be,
responded with a simple don't do that with a chuckle, I rolled my
eyes. Maybe my eyes were playing
tricks on me. I knew my area was known for
occasionally being sketchy, but this couldn't have been more
than a Wellness check gone astray.
All right, I'm coming back. No sense in me sticking my nose
where it wasn't invited. I told Sarah on the radio as I
turned to start heading back. I walked head first into none
other than Phil. But Phil was in quite a state.
His black T-shirt was tattered, his sweatpants were stained in a
deep shade of red that to the untrained eye looked black in
the dim light. Phil greeted me with a wide,
wide smile, rare of malice and wicked anticipation.
For the first time in months, I kept an eye on him.
There was a clarity in his eyes that set off every alarm bell a
human mind could possibly have. He didn't look confused and
dazed or glossy eyed like he usually did.
Sizing him up, I knew that if there were no surprises, I could
take him. I could toss him right over my
shoulder if I wanted to. However, some little voice in
the back of my mind screamed that was a very bad idea.
Without a word, I raised my hand as if showing him I had nothing
on me that I could use to hurt him or pose too much of A
threat. His wide smile faltered as he
eyed the walkie-talkie clip to my belt, and for a split second
I swore I saw the makings of a scowl.
I prayed to whatever God would be listening tonight.
I slowly lowered my right hand down to my belt, then brought
the device up to clear eye level.
That flicker of a scowl told me all I needed to know about the
boat that I found myself in, and the last thing I needed was the
situation going from hazardous to fatal.
With the same slow, careful pace, I brought my left hand
down to the volume knob and turned it all the way down.
Thankfully the radio was an old off brand RadioShack model so
the display light was hard to see even in pitch black
conditions, but to stay on the safe side, I kept the display
palmed in my hand just in case my gambit was a little too
obvious to spot. As if showing him that I indeed
turned it off, I clicked the talk button 4 distinct times and
four more times after that. By then I had to rely on hope
that Sarah paid attention to the non verbal signals I've shown
her over the last few months and what to do if I ever used one.
Phil seemed satisfied with the silence of my radio, but
gestured again to the bushes he had hidden in earlier.
Toss it, he said calmly. I didn't bother arguing.
I gave the radio 1/2 throw just shy of where he wanted it.
That scowl flickered on his face again, and with one quick motion
he brought his foot down on the thing hard enough for it to
crack. When he brought his heel down on
the radio again, I'd taken what I thought was an unnoticed step
back, but the reaction that spurred from Phil told me how
wrong I was. In an instant, he snapped his
attention back to me, then brandished a hammer he had
hidden in his sweatpants. I quickly tried to guess, but
also dismissed the thought as my mind began to wonder if I was
going to be granted the gift of a rather harsh headache.
His eyes lit up as he watched me freeze.
What, scared of a silly little thing like this?
He taunted, waving the hammer as if it were nothing more than a
kids toy. His jovial sarcasm irked me, but
I'd figured if I tried to rush him the back of my head would be
mimicking a split melon in an instant.
So instead I shook my head slightly.
Just wondering what other rabbits you're about to pull
from that hat. I responded, trying to create a
bit of levity. Phil smirked.
Enough to make my night easy and yours especially difficult.
My night is always rough when you show up.
I grumbled. Can't ever tell if you're off
your meds or just a flat out whack job.
Phil tilted his head as if thinking.
You're stalling. He said plainly as his
expression became unreadable. And just like that, flight or
fight had kicked itself into full alert with no warning
whatsoever. He wildly swung the sharp side
of his hammer. On instinct from the many
previous tangles I've been in over the years.
I raised my left arm to block it, but that was a mistake.
I very quickly paid for the claw head of the hammer bit into my
forearm and dug in. I let out a pained shout,
attempting to pull it out with my other hand.
However, Phil yanked it out and went for another swing.
This time I ducked it and rammed my shoulder into his gut,
attempting to tackle him to hold him down.
To my surprise, I succeeded in my half cocked counter.
When we hit the ground, Phil let out a surprised Yelp but very
quickly swung that hammer again. This time it connected with my
side. Thankfully, though it hurt like
heck, nothing broke. Having rolled on top of him, I
reared back and gave him a right to the temple that would have
made Mike Tyson himself proud. This seemed to anger him pretty
bad. Instead of swinging at me with
the hammer again, he went to press his thumbs into my eyes.
My answer to the attempt at my eyesight was another vicious
right hook, and another, then one more for good measure.
I'd hoped to knock him out, but instead he simply submitted.
In our scuffle, I failed to see the two officers approaching
with their weapons drawn. It dawned on me how the
situation looked, and before either of the officers said a
word, I got off of my seemingly subdued attacker and placed my
hands behind my head. After that, things went by in a
blur, but I do recall seeing Sarah explained to the officers
what had happened and even urging them to the station's
backroom to review the security camera footage.
Sarah even explained that it was I who signaled her to gather the
authorities after the sequence of beeps I sent through the
walkie-talkie. It was unknown to me at the time
that she had responded to my signal at all, but apparently
she had clicked her talk button twice.
A way of saying I understand. Not surprising, though, was
hearing that a couple of the other cashiers had recorded the
ordeal from their phones with a new understanding.
The officers, instead of detaining me, urge me to seek
medical attention for the weeping gash in my arm.
I agreed. Given that I'd started losing
feeling in that arm altogether, I figured Phil caught a good
cluster of nerves and I didn't notice during the fray.
Or maybe I lost a little too much blood for comfort.
Either way, I found myself in the back of an EMS vehicle being
tended to and urged to take the next couple of days off work to
recover. I went for a check up the
following day, just to be sure. The good news was the damage was
all fairly temporary. The wound on my left arm would
heal normally, but the trade off would be when it gets humid or
stormy I'd feel an ache again instead of cracked or fractured
ribs. I made off with only a bruise
that healed within a few days. I put in my two weeks notice to
the higher ups about three months later, concluding my year
and a half long service as an unarmed security officer.
Through Sarah though, I found out that Phil was indeed
responsible for the initial police response that night
because four people had been bludgeoned to a pulp in their
apartment and then another three were found in the hallway
leading out. According to Sarah, I was pretty
lucky I caught him off guard. Running into him the way I did
was a surprise to us both. I always knew something was off
about Phil and I have a bad feeling I haven't seen the last
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It was a typical summer evening in our little New Hampshire
town. The kind where the sun takes
forever to set and the air starts to cool just a little.
I was on my way to pick up my best friend, Jake.
We had plans like we did most nights to play some video games
and maybe watch a horror movie. Our favorite kind.
As I drove down the familiar roads, I couldn't help but feel
a little excited. Even though we did pretty much
the same thing every time we hung out, it was always the
highlight of my day. Jake didn't have his driver's
license yet, so I was the one who always drove to his place or
picked him up. Our town was small, surrounded
by thick woods and old buildings that looked like they had tons
of stories to tell. One of these buildings was the
old textile mill just down the hill from my house.
It was a huge, creepy place that had been abandoned for as long
as I could remember. My grandma used to tell us
stories about how way back in the day people worked there
under really bad conditions and that some even died in accidents
because of that. People said it was haunted.
As we drove past the old mill, I slowed down a bit.
The setting sun cast long shadows, making the broken
windows of the mill look like dark watching eyes.
Hey, did you ever hear about the ghost sightings here?
I asked Jake, nodding toward the mill.
Yeah. He replied, his eyes wide with a
mix of fear and excitement. They say you can see the ghosts
of the workers, sometimes still dressed in their old timey
clothes. Super creepy.
Right across from the mill was a dirt parking lot where the
telephone company parked their work trucks overnight.
As we passed by the lot, something strange caught my eye.
Dude, look. I whispered sharply, pointing
under one of the trucks. There were two pale legs and
bare feet, just standing there, motionless.
They looked so out of place, so ghostly.
The legs were small, like those of a child.
My heart started to race as we got closer.
And then, just like that, they were gone.
No sign of anyone running away or hiding, they just vanished.
Did you see that? I asked, my voice a mix of
excitement and fear. The white legs, Yeah, I saw
them. That was weird.
Jake said, looking back as we drove on.
We both fell silent for a moment, the wheels of my car
crunching on the gravel Rd. being the only sound.
You think it was a ghost? I finally muttered.
Not sure if I wanted it to be true.
Maybe. Jake said, shrugging.
Or maybe our eyes were just playing tricks on us.
You know, shadows and stuff. I nodded, but inside I wasn't so
sure. The image of those ghostly pale
legs under the truck stuck with me as we drove the rest of the
way to my house. We tried to shake it off by
diving into our video games and not talking about it anymore,
but I could tell we were both a little spooked.
Every now and then I caught Jake glancing out the window as if he
expected to see those legs walking up the driveway.
As the night grew darker and the sounds of our video games filled
the room, I tried to convince myself it was nothing, just a
trick of the light or our imaginations.
But deep down I wondered if we had just seen one of the Mills
ghosts still lingering around, trapped in time.
And that thought was enough to send shivers down my spine.
After that night by the old Mill, things felt a bit
different. Jake and I tried to act like
everything was normal, but the image of those ghostly legs
didn't really leave our minds. To get our spirits up, we
decided to go see a movie in town.
It was a new action film and we thought it would help us forget
the creepy stuff for a while. The movie was great, full of
explosions and car chases. It did the trick.
For a few hours we were just two friends having fun, not thinking
about anything else. As we walked out of the theater,
laughing and discussing our favorite parts, the sky was dark
and the stars were out. It seemed like a perfect end to
the evening, but we still had to drive home.
The road back to Jake's house was narrow and wound through
thick woods. Trees towered on both sides, and
it was so dark that even our headlights seem to get swallowed
up by the night. I drove slowly, the recent
memory of the mill making me extra cautious.
As we rounded a bend, I felt Jake tense up next to me.
Do you ever think we'll see something weird again?
He asked, his voice a little shaky.
Like the legs. I replied, trying to keep my
voice light. I hope not.
Just then, something unbelievable happened.
Out of the dark woods, A huge shadow swooped right above the
car. It flew so close that I could
almost feel the air move. I slammed on the brakes and both
of us stared up through the windshield.
Hovering under a street light for just a second was a creature
like nothing I had ever seen before.
It was enormous, about the size of a large wolf, but it had
wings. Not bird wings, but big bat like
wings that flapped heavily as it balanced in the air.
Did you see that? I gasped, my hands gripping the
steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white.
Yeah. Jake whispered.
His face was pale, his eyes wide with fear.
It it had wings, and not just wings.
As the creature flew across the light I could see it had legs
and a tail too. It looked powerful and
terrifying, something straight out of a nightmare.
We both were too scared to move or even speak.
The creature disappeared into the trees on the other side of
the road and everything was silent again.
I slowly started driving, my heart pounding so loud I could
hear it in my ears. Neither of us said a word the
whole way to Jake's house. The fun of the movie was long
forgotten, replaced by the fear of what we had just seen.
When we finally got to his driveway, I turned off the
engine and we both just sat there for a moment.
Then, all at once, we started talking, both of us speaking
fast, trying to make sense of it.
Jake's brother was home when we went inside.
We told him what we had seen, but he just laughed.
You guys must have imagined it, he said, shaking his head.
But we knew what we saw, and it was no imagination.
That night we didn't talk much more.
We both went to bed, but I lay awake listening to the sounds of
the night and wondering about the creature with the wings.
Was it watching us? Was it waiting in the woods?
I didn't know. And that was the scariest part
of all. I was 20 years old, attending
basic training at Fort Benning, GA, in the summer of 2011.
The process at MEPs, or the Military Entrance Processing
Station for civilians lasted about 17 days.
During that time, I learned a lot about people and made
connections with soldiers who would go on to basic training
with me, friends who are still close to me today.
One story that all of us recall, one which holds a mythological
place in my heart, is the story of Jonathan Oldberg.
This story took place at MEPs, which brings me back to the
point of bringing it up in the 1st place.
MEPIS is the first time you and all the other new US Army
recruits are together, sleeping in barracks, standing in
formations, getting shots and doing basic and processing
tasks. MEPs often serves as a toe
dipping into the military life of being told how to jump, how
high to jump, when to jump. No Sir, yes Sir.
All that. Needless to say, this is the
first place where prospective soldiers might bail, raise their
hands, refuse to go on finding themselves out processing before
they've even started the in processing.
It's not beyond a new soldier to act mentally unfit to be
classified as not fit for service, but usually it's broken
down to finally fessing up or straightening out and figuring
your junk out. Throughout the days though,
whispering and rumors of Oldberg's strange behavior
became more and more known. Bunkmates to the left and right
of him would claim stories of the young 19 year old rambling
in the night, talking to himself in whispers.
These whispers would last through the entire night as fire
guards. Two soldiers on guard in the
night that rotate on shift hourly would take note.
This means that throughout the night, sometimes 10 different
soldiers would mention their strange encounter.
Hearing Oldberg or seeing him act differently.
Boredom helped spur my interest in this encounter, and
throughout the first few days I delighted in hearing different
weird run insurance, like Oldberg staring at a walking
patrol guard walking past his bunk in the middle of the night,
maybe around 2:00 AM or 4:00 AM. It didn't really matter what
time if he was faking, he was committed to the role at all
hours of the day, something that really stood out early to me.
By night time, we were all so tired we take any extra minutes
of sleep. Gladly.
I remember approaching Oldberg saying hello during some free
time at the barracks after lunch.
I approached the small 5 foot 6 soldier who soaking wet could
not have been over 130 lbs. His pale white skin gave him a
ghostly appearance. Talking to him he seemed like a
normal soft spoken kid. He was well mannered, polite,
more shy than anything. I thought he was harmless.
The stories must be bored soldiers ganging up on the new
kid. A story as old as time, really.
How could I get lost believing in gossip or even entertaining
the thought? That thought would change
drastically throughout the next few days.
My first run in with Oldberg strangeness came with my second
shift of fire guard. This took place on day four of
Maps. My bunk mate Brian and I woke up
at 1:55 AM, five minutes before my shift had to start.
I got dressed, put on my shoes, and was at the fire guard desk
in minutes. The shift went by boring and
quiet. Soft snores and rumbles of
sleeping soldiers lined the wide spaces of the darkened barracks
Bay. Brian and I made small talk
while we passed the time. The moonlight gave the corridor
an eerie glow. Being around 60 bodies in one
room gives you a sense of security, though at least if
something does come up, there's enough of you and your fellow
soldiers to deal with the threat.
I walked and patrolled the darkened Bay, making sure not to
wake the sleeping soldiers with my steps.
I felt it was practice for being a sneaky infantryman, a skill I
would definitely need someday, I assured myself.
I passed by bunk bed to bunk bed, all the way to one end of
the Bay and into the bathrooms, which, unlike the darkened Bay,
were almost overwhelmingly bright.
I took a leak, washed my hands and grabbed my l-shaped
flashlight, leaving on the opposite side of the bathroom
which would put me on the last leg of my patrol on a race track
shaped bed bunk situation where the middle remains open, if that
makes sense. When I got about 1/4 of the way
down, I heard a small scratching sound.
I paused my walk and listened intently.
The noise was coming from a few bunks up.
I walked slowly, making sure not to make a single noise.
The closer I got to the target of what I perceived the sound to
be coming from, I realized it was coming from a bottom bunk.
The moonlight perfectly bounced off the open Bay windows,
lighting up the white sheets that were covering a soldier.
The sheet wrapped tightly over the small body as if someone was
pulling it downwards through the bed.
When my eyes focused onto the lips of the featureless
apparition, I realized the sound I was hearing wasn't scratching
at all. It was whispering, quiet but
violent whispering, almost a chant.
I stood there dumbfounded, not knowing what to do.
What was this noise? Is this kid OK?
Should I wake him up? I simply just stood there for
what seemed like minutes. My focus was broken by the bunk
mate next to him rolling over and looking at me.
The what the heck he mouthed to me seem to match my exact same
reaction. The other bunk on the other side
rolled over as well to acknowledge his nervousness or
fear of the situation too. The fact that this was keeping
people up in the middle of the night only angered me, so I
smacked the side of the bed with my unlit light and said hey shut
up people can't sleep. With the loud Ding of the metal
of my light and the harshness in my tone, the whispering stopped
and the mouth stopped moving. These soldiers on both sides of
me gave me a nod of approval and a thumbs up.
Best fire guard ever, I thought in my head as I strolled back to
the fire guard desk, which was now lit up.
I glanced back before breaking sight though.
I looked at the still illuminated old Berg, whose face
was covered by the sheet. I could swear he was smiling
through the tightly pulled cloth.
I shook my head, walking back to Brian who was chatting up the
next fire guard shift. When I told them about what I'd
seen, Brian cut me off and told me the noise got louder and
louder when I left, which is why he turned his light on.
The other guard excitedly told me about some weird
circumstances of his shift the other night, details I forgot,
but it made me think maybe we're all just wired up and looking
for excitement. Some of us created it.
Some of us like the show. Anyway, it wasn't enough to make
me lose sleep yet, although I couldn't get the sight of that
face profile draped by the tight cloth out of my mind.
I mean, who slept like that? What game was he playing?
I bet to myself he'd breakdown and quit the next morning,
dropping whatever facade he was playing into.
The next day came, and beyond my surprise, Oldberg had no clue at
all that he had been acting strangely the previous night.
He quickly became the topic of small time gossip.
Every soldier quickly had input on their favorite weird creepy
Oldberg moment. Despite the weirdness at night,
Oldberg seemed normal. He talked shyly, never really
divulged much about himself, and even seemed to try and make
friends. I remember a soldier, Boyer,
trying to befriend him and even deciding to take up the top bunk
of Oldberg, showing solidarity with someone who seemed to be
lonely. Boyer would even defend Oldberg,
hushing stories and tests from the rest of these soldiers,
saying it's just people creating excitement at the expense of
poor Oldberg. This would not last long as day
by day more stories came along. Even Boyer had his own run in
sleeping above the ghostly apparition.
Although he never added to the stories and would never update
us on what he'd seen. But I know he experienced
something strange or grave as he would quickly change the subject
or comment on how strange everything was.
Like a man fed up with finding information he no longer wanted
to see. Boyer moved his bed and stuff
far away from Oldberg and pretty soon the beds to the left and
right of Oldberg followed suit. My next run in would occur about
seven days into inn processing. By now everyone knew each other
roughly and we all rushed to fill the empty time with working
out and talking about whatever we could to fill the long days.
My next fire guard shift came up and once again Brian and I sat
at the desk joking and talking about whatever.
Coincidentally, we joked about ghost stories, spooky things
we'd seen as kids. We chuckled and laughed in the
dark Bay, our only light source being the moonlight in the
windows and the green exit sign. Besides this we had our l-shaped
flashlights that at the time we both had turned off.
The room grew silent, even snoring seemed to cease.
The darkness in the room seemed to grow like the clouds had
decided to block the moon, now only leaving the green exit
light as our only light source in the now growingly spooky
room. Staring into the blackened Bay,
I heard movement. I focused my eyes and couldn't
see, so I moved to the front of the fire guard desk.
Brian sat up in his chair suspiciously.
A small dragging sound came from the middle of the Bay floor in
the kill zone. A portion of the floor reserved
for drill sergeants, a spot where soldiers knew not to walk.
Then complete silence. Just as I was about to break the
long silence, a figure sprints at me from the dark.
A pale white Oldberg stops abruptly about 5 meters away
from me. I met his incoming pace with the
rays of my l-shaped light, like I was waiting for a fastball
pitch. A violent smile beamed across
the soldiers face as he stood strangely with his hands and
limbs outstretched. Oldberg, I'm going to mess you
up man. I blasted out.
There wasn't an ounce of hesitation.
I was afraid of getting kicked out for trouble or causing a
fight, but this was another level of concern.
It seemed like fear of death. One step closer and I was going
to tee off like Barry Bonds. The smile on Oldberg's face grew
and I now noticed his eyes were open.
They'd been open the whole time, but I'd confused them for being
closed. His pupils had turned back and
all that was visible were the whites of his eyes.
He let out this weird giggle. Get back to your bed or I'm
going to mess you up, Oldberg. I'm not playing with you, man.
I told him. Brian sat there petrified.
Oldberg then backs up slowly into the darkness.
Brian and I sat there staring at ourselves, just bearing witness
to this situation. What the heck was that?
Brian mentioned, his face pale white.
He looked scared, cluing me and that if I had fought Oldberg
then and there, it was probably going to be a 1V1 with a demon.
We woke up the next fire guard and explained the situation.
They nodded their heads in agreement, ready to investigate.
Oldberg seemed to be the only thing anyone was guarding for at
this point. We got up and went on down to
where Oldberg slept. The darkness from the Bay made
the room seem incredibly long. We marched all four together to
his bed. He lay facing away with the
blanket covering his head completely, not moving like
nothing had ever happened. I remember making sure that the
guard knew to wake me up if something crazy did happen.
I no longer doubted any of the stories.
Something was not right about Oldberg, and everyone at this
point agreed. I wanted to be awake if anyone
saw him moving strangely. Almost like it was inevitable
that something was going to happen.
The next day was basic in processing, and at this point we
were pretty much just hurrying up and waiting to transition to
actual basic training. Halfway through the day, while
I'm still sitting on my bed, I'm surprised by a familiar face.
Oldberg, who seemed even more small and frail than normal,
like his health had been deteriorating while he was here,
he was standing there in front of me.
Hey Rowan. His soft Tim voice bellowed out.
What's up Oldberg? I replied.
I heard I went up to the guard desk and pissed you off last
night. I'm so sorry, I don't even
remember any of that or why I'd go up to the desk.
Oldberg stated. He apologized profusely and
seemed genuinely sorry for the event.
I didn't know how to treat the situation.
I remember shaking his hand, telling him it's all good, and
even making a joke about it, Something that I could tell
relieved Oldberg despite his weirdness.
He seemed like a genuine, sweet person, like an only child who
was out of his element but just trying to make friends.
There wasn't anything to dislike about Oldberg when he was
himself, which is what made the whole thing even more strange.
Every time he'd be included in the group or shown he's one of
us, he'd get turned around the following morning after a fire
guard would catch him sleeping strangely or wandering in the
showers, which happened to one of my other friends.
He kept hearing something from the latrine.
When he went to investigate, he found Oldberg propped against
the shower wall, staring up with the biggest smile on his face,
eyes rolled back just the same as I'd seen him.
It sucked seeing the battle of him trying to be normal paired
with whatever illness or mental affliction that affected him.
My last run in with Oldberg would be the most significant of
any run in. I would be the grand finale in
the showdown with Oldberg, a story that many of my old
brothers talk about even today. Day 13, a day that came as
normal as any, Brian and I sat on the desk once again, blabbing
about random topics. Halfway through the shift I
heard some stirring around the Dark Zone, the area where three
or so bunks had been emptied around Oldberg.
Brian and I looked at each other as we kept hearing a bang, bang,
bang, bang. We both crept forward down the
dark corridor, light off at first, but soon enough we set
half that and turned them both on.
We made it to Old Berg's bed area, but he wasn't there.
I shined the light under the bed, then on the top and
suddenly bang. It came from the other side of
his locker. I looked over and I saw his legs
there. He had himself propped up under
the Bay window with his head banging back against the locker,
creating that loud thud noise. Oldberg.
I whispered harshly. No response was made other than
another bang against the wall. I look closer and sure enough
his eyes were rolled backwards again.
Hey. I yelled out, not trying to get
any closer. His mouth opened and whispers
chant out just like the first day, but this time it was
louder, more distinct. The sharpness and Highness of
his tone was inhuman and reminded me of the red Rum
moment in The Shining when Danny keeps screaming the phrase.
This started to awake the other soldiers who began to dress and
wander over. Get the next shift.
I told Brian he ran across the Bay.
While I sat there staring at this entity, I listened closer.
What was it he was chanting? Soon I heard some familiar
words. He was speaking Latin it seemed.
Not that my Latin is decent, I just remember the way it
sounded. And this was by far not a normal
language. When the next two soldiers
showed up, they'd already made themselves prepared for the
situation. Everyone was ready for some
Oldberg confrontation. And this was it.
Oldberg. I yelled.
His chant grew louder. Me and three other soldiers
moved in closer, surrounding him.
His language grew more demonic and harsh.
Then he makes a statement, and right as he says it, it all
ends, and BAM, the Bay window, which was eight feet up,
indefinitely unreachable by any of us, especially Oldburg, bangs
loudly three times. This noise makes all of us jump,
and the other soldiers in the Bay began to murmur in
confusion. This was a paranormal situation,
there was no way around it, no way in heck he could play this
role so well, and the noise at the window cemented this.
We were on the 2nd floor and that window lay at least 20 feet
off the ground. Oldberg's Latin proceeds again,
louder and louder. He's shouting to the point of
uncontrollable yelling. I told Brian to get the drill
Sergeant on guard, as this was beyond us.
While he's gone, the other soldiers began to panic.
Was Oldberg stroking out? Was he possessed?
I needed an answer. Pain is the best cleanser for
any act, I thought. Paired with a surprise, it could
break anyone's act. I reached back and slapped
Oldberg so hard in the face mid chant.
He stopped chanting and stared right at me, but his smile grew
wider, more monstrous. Taken aback by my effort to get
him to stop my colleagues, surprise grew.
The fact I could hit him so well and not one hesitation in the
ACT or even a moment of ow that hurt, cemented it even more.
There was no helping this kid, I thought.
We need an exorcist. Just then, an angry drill
sergeant's voice broke through the darkness.
I pointed and the drill breaks character by going.
What the F? He orders all of us to get back
in bed while he and another drill pick Oldberg up and pull
him to the Medical Center outside the Bay.
What the F was right. I'm surprised how anyone could
fall asleep after that event. I think most of us stayed up.
Morning came and Oldberg wasn't to be seen again.
From what I heard, he kept going at it like that until dawn.
Rumors abound that they had to sedate him as he was unable to
wake up from his trance. His locker was emptied out by
the hospital staff, and that was the last we'd seen of old
Jonathan Oldberg. We would only be there at in
Processing for a few more days, but the stories of Oldberg would
persist all the way through Basic and through deployments.
And even when I linked back up with old friends from the
service days, it would not be the last mention I'd heard of
him. Though about two months into
basic, we were scheduled to get our dress Blues tailored at the
MEPs and Processing Center. It was cool seeing the area
again, especially after being this close to being done with
basic and getting ready to head into Infantry, AIT, or Advanced
Individual Training. At a certain point I had to use
the latrine. So I go to the restroom and
while I'm taking a leak, I hear two soldiers talking.
Yo, did you hear about Oldberg last night?
They found him going through empty barracks screaming and
crap. They can't figure out what to do
with him while he out processes. Yeah, that guy's a freak, The
other says. It blew my mind that he was
still here, still terrorizing soldiers and drill sergeants
alike. My guess is they knew something
was extremely wrong with him and after all the mental trials and
tribulations, they realized he had to be put somewhere, Maybe
an asylum or something. Despite his condition, Oldberg
was nothing but friendly and deeply wanted to be a soldier,
at least it seemed in my eyes. This story is about 13 years old
now, and I can recall the tone in his voice, the way it seemed
almost alien, the way his face lit up with a sheet draped over
it the first time I saw him. I hope Oldberg found peace and
is living a happy life around good people.
I hope he doesn't suffer from whatever he was suffering
through. That situation was far from
normal though, and it's one of the things that have cemented
the supernatural in my own life. I hope I never have to find out
if he escaped his affliction or if he's even alive now.
He might be angry from the slap that night.
At least I hope to never find out.
I've never been one to shy away from the unexplainable.
Not when you grow up sensing things that others can't.
At 20, my life had been a carousel of eerie experiences,
but nothing that I couldn't handle.
Or so I thought. That December, moving into a new
apartment with Nikki felt like stepping into a clear, sunny day
after a week of storms. For the first time, a home
didn't press down on me with the weight of unseen eyes.
Nikki was as normal as they come, her biggest worry being
her next exam or what color to dye her hair.
Our small apartment was on the third floor of a tired but
friendly building, it's red bricks worn smooth by years and
weather. From the start it seemed we were
set for a fresh chapter, free from disturbances both
paranormal and mundane. That sense of peace lasted until
May when life decided to throw us a curveball.
Named Morgan, she was 16, with more baggage than anyone her age
deserved. Her dad, a self styled Satanist,
had a cruel streak wider than the Missouri River.
The day she moved in, she sat on the faded blue couch, hugging
her knees and told us in a flat voice that her dad had cursed
her, that something dark followed her, a shadow creature.
I believed her. You don't grow up like I did
without knowing that some nightmares walk in daylight.
But I chalked most of it up to the trauma of her upbringing, a
screen her mind projected to deal with all the mess at home.
I decided it was best not to stir the pot, to just keep an
eye on things. But then the apartment started
to disagree with my nonchalance. It began with small, almost
laughable things. Our coffee table moved a few
inches from where it was the night before.
Mail scattered like autumn leaves across the floor.
The cats, I'd mutter, though the explanation hung flimsy in the
air like a cobweb. Then the pranks turned peculiar.
Our laundry detergent once ended up a puddle under the dining
room table, the empty bottle standing like a Sentinel in the
middle of the mess. Nikki laughed it off, but her
laughter had a nervous edge. I didn't like things escalated
quietly, The way dread builds in the pit of your stomach.
Both Morgan and Nikki, on separate occasions, woke up
paralyzed, whispering tales of a child size shadow in their
rooms, its head too big, hands too long, a silhouette etched in
darkness. My skin would crawl at their
descriptions, so eerily similar, though I hadn't seen the thing
myself. I should have been scared,
perhaps, but fear is a luxury you can't afford when you're the
only one who's supposed to hold it together.
So I held firm, even as an unspoken chill settled into our
home like frost on window glass. Then came that night in May,
alone, with only the hum of the refrigerator and my thoughts.
I had never felt it so intensely before, that feeling of being
watched. As the shadows deepened, so did
my sense of unease. The apartment felt crowded, as
if the walls themselves inhaled and exhaled, heavy with secrets.
I was sitting on the couch, trying to lose myself in a book
when the air grew oppressively thick.
It was like the world had tilted, reality skewed in a
direction I couldn't follow. My chest tightened, breaths
coming short. I tried to stand, to move, but
the darkness pressed in, tangible as the fabric of the
couch under my fingers. Panic clawed up my throat, a
primal screaming thing, but I swallowed it down.
I wasn't alone in this, couldn't afford to be.
Not just for my sake, but for Nikki's, for Morgan's.
So I straightened, forced my lungs to work, and prepared to
face whatever was encroaching on our fragile little life.
It was just the beginning, and somehow I knew it was going to
get worse. The night I first felt truly
threatened in my own home was a turning point.
There's something about darkness that's thicker than shadow,
something that swallows sound and makes the minutes stretch
until lifetimes. That's what descended on our
apartment one suffocating evening when I was alone, the
heavy silence punctuated only by my own erratic heartbeat.
I was curled up on the couch, the TV murmuring low in the
background, an island of light in a sea of creeping shadows.
The atmosphere had shifted, subtle but undeniable.
My chest felt like it was caught in a vise, each breath a labor.
It was as if the apartment had exhaled a deep, dark breath and
hadn't inhaled since sitting up. I pushed the blanket off with a
jerk, the room unnaturally cold. The dim light from the hall
seemed to hesitate at the edge of the living room, unwilling to
penetrate the darkness that had thickened around me.
I reached for my phone, thumb swiping for the flashlight app,
but the device felt alien and unresponsive in my hands.
When the sudden realization hit that I wasn't alone, my skin
prickled with a cold dread. There was a presence, a weight
of something unseen that filled the room like smoke.
I listened, barely breathing, and heard it.
A slow, deliberate footfall in the kitchen behind me.
Not the light tap of a cat's paw, but the solid, unmistakable
sound of a human foot. Panic surged, sharp and metallic
in my taste. I spun around, phone clutched
like a lifeline, but saw nothing.
The kitchen was empty, bathed in the weak glow from the street
light outside the window. But the feeling of being watched
intensified, pressing down on me until I thought I might crumble
under it. I couldn't stay there, frozen by
fear. So I did what I had learned to
do fight back. Grabbing sage from the drawer, I
lit it, the smoke curling into the air, a visible marker of my
defiance. Nikki and I had smeared oil on
the door frames last week, a barrier we hoped was more than
symbolic. You're not welcome here.
I muttered into the darkness, words less for it and more for
me. But the nights that followed
brought no peace. Nikki, normally so vibrant, grew
paler each day, her nights tormented by that same shadow
figure that now haunted both her dreams and waking moments.
We were fighting a losing battle, it seemed, against an
enemy that thrived in the very fear it engendered.
Desperation LED us to Nikki's mother, a woman of deep faith
and conviction. She arrived with holy water and
a calm certainty that was both a bomb and a blade.
She moved through our home, blessing each room with a
practiced hand, her prayers a soft but firm rebuke against the
darkness. Slowly, the apartment began to
breathe again. The oppressive weight lifted and
the air cleared as if a storm had passed.
Morgan moved out shortly after her departure, coinciding with a
palpable shift in the atmosphere.
Her younger brother moved in and mysteriously the disturbances
dwindled until they were just a memory, a dark chapter in our
lives that we hoped was firmly closed.
As I lay in bed that night, listening to the quiet sounds of
a home at peace, I wondered about the power of belief, of
curses and blessings. There was a lesson here about
the shadows we carry and the light we seek, and while the
peace might be fragile, it was peace none the less, hard won
and precious. I drifted off to sleep asleep,
unmarred by shadows, with a heart lighter than it had been
in months. My dad worked as a taxi driver
for 10 years, transporting drunk university students back to
their accommodation and taking elderly ladies to their bingo
nights. He has taken many people on many
journeys up and down the country.
As such, he's gone through several supernatural
experiences. I'll tell you a few of his
stories told to me as a kid. Around two years into taxiing,
he had a job that paid quite well.
It was a simple, straightforward job.
He had to pick up a group of middle-aged women and drive them
to a local restaurant. It was a dark Friday night and
they were celebrating their friends 47th birthday.
They were excited and a little tipsy.
He told me that these jobs are usually the easiest, the ones
where you can talk to the customers, revel in their
excitement or hear their life stories.
The journey was a long one, being around half an hour.
The destination was set on the edge of a Cliff, looking towards
the sea. As they neared the restaurant,
their surroundings became enveloped in heavy fog.
The fog eclipsed nearby signs and blurred traffic lights.
My dad needed to exercise caution, so he slowed down,
relying more on his sat NAV for guidance.
He looked around and found the usually busy roads empty.
This was unusual, but he blamed it on the weather.
Nevertheless, he continued with the journey, determined to
complete it so he could pick up more customers before going home
for the night. However, the more my dad drove,
the thicker the fog became. While talking to one of the
ladies in the passenger seat, he noticed that his sat NAV started
to flash, seemingly turning off and on.
It froze on the road they were on, so he turned it off and
continued as he knew this area like the back of his hand.
However, even being ripped out of the stand wouldn't stop the
screen from flashing, illuminating the windshield and
almost blinding him. It was a dark night after all,
and the flashes were enough to cause little white spots that
linger after blinking. Annoyed, he simply threw it in
the cup holders and kept driving.
As he got closer to the destination, he began to notice
a bright white glow coming from the distance on the left side as
they were near the beach. He initially dismissed it,
thinking he was coming up on a lighthouse or a nearby ship.
He paid it no mind, even as the light shone brighter and grew
larger, taking over the left side of his windshield.
Soon, the pleasant conversation between the ladies slowed and
stopped all together, with concerned mudders taking their
place. What is that?
Some of them gasped, mouths agape.
The extroverted and friendly woman in the passenger seat, who
had been talking to my dad the entire way there, turned into a
statue, staring into the distance.
She told my dad to slow down as she thought someone was walking
in the road. As they approached the alleged
figure, they all saw where the bright light was coming from.
A pale Gray man in tattered Victorian clothes holding a
Lantern walked across the road, mere meters away from the car.
The scary part, my dad said, was that they were so shocked at
someone walking on the road and how bright the light was, it
took a few seconds to register that the man had no legs.
Instead, they saw him gliding across the road.
My dad said he doesn't know how he got to the restaurant so
quickly after that, but he knew that he probably broke a few
traffic laws by speeding all the way there.
The most notable part of that event, though, was how affected
the customers were. Once a bubbly, excited, and
tipsy bunch, they were now silent, shocked, and subdued.
I do wonder what they told their friends upon arrival, if they
told anyone at all. I'll tell you another story, one
that I was partially at least witness to.
It was November, on a chilly night.
My dad at this point was a seasoned taxi driver, having
worked half a decade in the profession.
Despite a few shaky experiences, nothing really fazed him
anymore. It was close to the end of his
shift, around 10:00 PM, and the jobs available had dried up.
He decided to go home, seeing as though my mother and I were
waiting up for him so we could have dinner together.
It was on his way home that a notification popped up on his
meter for a job and it wasn't too far from home, so he figured
he would complete the short trip and come straight home.
It was a relatively straightforward trip, a 10
minute journey from a club to a residential block of flats.
He quickly drove to the pick up location, which was quite
populated. He messaged the passenger that
he had arrived and waited. The passengers said that they
were walking to the car. He scanned the crowd of
partygoers lined up outside the club and the stragglers waiting
on the curb. He couldn't see anyone walking
towards him. Then suddenly he saw her.
A long haired young woman dressed in a long black dress
and heeled boots. Her hair partially covered her
face, masking her eyes and part of her mouth.
My dad felt uneasy, and she had not come from the club.
Instead, she had come from an adjacent alleyway across from
it. As far as he knew, that alleyway
LED nowhere. It was a dead end, so he
couldn't figure out where she could have come from.
There were various clubs lining the busy St. and she didn't come
from any of them. Despite this, she waved at him
and walked over to the taxi. My dad said.
As soon as she opened the door, he felt a cold chill run up his
spine. It just felt wrong to be in the
presence of this woman. He tried to play it cool.
After all, this was his last job and he was going home right
after. He began to drive to the
destination and she didn't say anything.
Instead she appeared to be picking at the skin of her palm.
Halfway through the taxi ride, she spoke for the first time.
She had this high pitched, eerily childlike voice.
Can you drop me off at a certain point please?
I couldn't get the location right on the app.
My dad, still feeling uneasy, nodded and followed her
instructions, driving to a different part of town, more
towards a set of shops. The closer they got to these
shops, the more he felt dizzy, nausea gripping his body.
He struggled to make it to the place she indicated.
Once they arrived, he asked which shop she wanted to be
dropped off at. The woman, still picking at her
palm and avoiding eye contact, pointed to the furthest shop at
the end of the street. He drove there slowly, trying
not to throw up. The car, he told me later, began
to smell like burning the closer they got.
Eventually, he couldn't stand it anymore.
He told her that he was dropping her off there and she could walk
the rest of the way. Despite him being quite blunt,
she was fine with it, thanking him and leaving the taxi.
She did do one thing however. When she said thank you, she
gripped his shoulder. Her hand was stone cold and her
nails dug into his skin slightly.
My dad felt the worst at this point.
He described it as worse than simply feeling nauseous.
It was more like something inside him was trying to claw
itself out of his throat. His hackles were raised, but
when the woman left the taxi at last, the feeling stopped
altogether. His shoulders, previously raised
to his ears, lowered and his car began to smell normal again.
He panicked, however, when he looked at the shop she wanted to
go to, he realized something. She said earlier that she lived
in a flat above the shop. My dad turned completely cold as
he looked at the aforementioned shop and saw that there was no
first floor. It was a ground floor shop.
In fact, none of the shops on that street had a second floor.
All of them were ground floors. He immediately drove home in a
panic, shouting like mad as he entered the house.
My mother and I tried to calm him, but he was convinced he had
met something supernatural that night.
Something evil. Thankfully he left the taxi
trade. He now works a less stressful
job. To all the taxi drivers out
there, I hope you're wary of the last customer you take because
they may not be human. Don't forget to check out Magic
Mind. You can find the link in the
description to get started today.