Tamara's True Tales

Late in the 70s, we moved into a four-bedroom home, a typical tract house in an established, pleasant neighborhood in the north end of San Bernardino, California. The house ‘felt’ fine to me, but almost immediately weird little things began happening. Everything about the house felt fine, but within a few weeks of moving in, I saw a toothbrush pop out of the holder by the medicine cabinet, slipping straight up then tumbling into the sink. I thought it was interesting, just that and nothing more, and whenever it reoccurred or when magazines would flop up and over the edge of the basket I kept them in, or the Kleenex box slid across a nightstand and another foot beyond before dropping to the floor.

These things happened regularly, and I chalked them up to some kind of gravitational glitch because they didn’t frighten me. That was the strange part. All my life I’d jumped at every noise and seen ghosts in every shadow. I couldn’t watch or even listen to a scary movie without bolting. I always had a reputation for being the family scardy cat. But here, in this houseful of phenomena, I was fine. There was no emotional sensation, so I knew it wasn’t anything spooky.

Because it honestly seemed unimportant and because I didn’t want to talk about something that could bring on the old teasing, I didn’t tell anyone, even my husband. He wouldn’t have teased though, and I think part of me knew that if I drew his attention to it, my blasé feelings might evolve into something unnerving.

For six months, these phenomena continued on a regular basis, minor and harmless. Then one Saturday we sat down for lunch at the kitchen table. We were side by side, facing into the room and a full trash box, about three and a half feet tall, was waiting in the center of the room to be taken out after we ate. The moment is etched in my mind. We were both holding ham sandwiches on wheat and tall glasses of milk were in front of us. We were talking, joking around. And we were both looking forward when the trash box lifted off the floor. It levitated about two or three inches off the ground and hovered for several seconds. Then it dropped and set there like nothing had happened.

We looked at each other and simultaneously said, “Did you see that?” We agreed we did and then I said, “It’s just gravity,” and explained that while I’d never seen anything so impressive before, that little things hopped around all the time. My mate was fascinated and spooked and used the “p” word – poltergeist. Despite my life-long fear, or because of it, I was well versed in paranormal phenomena and I guess my subconscious had kept that word out of my mind. Scary word!

Sure enough, in the next couple weeks, though nothing but the usual little phenomena occurred, the house began to feel menacing. I turned on all the lights as I moved down the halls and jumped at noises. Shadows seemed menacing now. I was most afraid that I’d buckle under and announce that we had to move. I would have before long, but the owners announced they wanted to move back in. What a relief!

Tujunga, California, sits in the foothills a few miles above Los Angeles. It, like several other cities and towns along the edges of the Angeles and San Bernardino National Forests, has an odd feel to it. There’s a loneliness and uneasiness to the area, faint, but there nonetheless. During the 80’s, we rented a roomy single story house there. It was a ranch house built in the 60’s, nice but unremarkable. The sunny living room, dining room, and kitchen formed a circle at one end and beyond the front door at the edge of the living room, a dark hall contained four bedrooms and one bath. Our bedroom was at the far end. The floors were oak under carpet.

We lived there for six months and nothing overt occurred, but we were always uneasy there. Our five cats suddenly became clingy and insisted on sleeping with us. They’d never been interested before but now; they clawed the door if we shut them out. The only other thing that was strange (in retrospect) was the muscle twitch that began in my right shoulder. At night, when I’d go in the bathroom to brush my teeth, I’d feel a little tap, like someone touching my shoulder blade. It would happen most every night, just once, and had a slight electric feel to it. I wasn’t concerned and never thought about it until it stopped after we moved out.

The night before we moved out, we had left our toddler with his grandmother and our cats at our new home then returned to the packed-up house to sleep on the mattress we’d left on the floor. In the morning, my spouse got up first, to go down to LA and borrow a truck from his company. I lazed in bed after he said goodbye. I heard him walk down the long hall and open and close the door.

A minute or two passed and I heard the front door open and close again. I thought he’d forgotten his wallet and called his name as I got up to find it. There was no reply, but I heard his footsteps coming slowly up the hall. They were heavier sounding than they should be and why was he walking so slowly? I called out again, yet there was no reply.

Adrenalin-charged now, half-sure I had a prowler, I pulled on a t-shirt and jeans and grabbed the only thing left in the room that could serve as a weapon – a broom. I held the handle in both hands, ready to poke a belly or bash a head, I moved behind the closed bedroom door and waiting. A split second more and the footsteps stopped on the other side of the door. I announced I had a gun. No reply. Minutes passed. Finally, too charged up to stand there waiting any longer, I moved to the wall and slammed open the door, shoving the broom handle forward as fast as I could.

There was nothing there. I waited. And then heard footsteps again, down in the living room or kitchen. There was no window that would open easily. I had to go for the front door. My trusty broom-spear aimed forward, I stepped softly down the hall, trying not the creak the floor and succeeding. I got to the end of the hall and paused, seeing no one. The footsteps stopped. The intruder was probably in the kitchen. I began to turn toward the front door, just a few feet out of the hall and, suddenly, the footsteps started up again, heavy and frightening. Right behind me, trudging up the hall toward our bedroom.

I didn’t look back – I just hightailed it outside and waited for my mate. I had weathered the poltergeist phenomena years before in the house in San Bernardino, discounting it because it didn’t affect my emotions. But this – I hate the word “evil” but that best describes the sensation I experienced. I wasn’t positive there was a living prowler in the house anymore.

When my spouse arrived, he was more amused than worried. We went inside and stood in the foyer a moment looking around. As we stepped forward, the footsteps began in front of us and went a few yards up the hall and we heard the door to the first bedroom slam even though it didn’t move. There was silence for a few moments, then the footsteps headed up the hall and faded away. With broom and crowbar in hands, we explored the house together, but there was nothing to see or hear.

Nothing happened again until late afternoon. We were almost done loading the truck and were flopped on the floor of the bedroom with the phantom door-slamming, drinking warm Cokes. My mate yelped suddenly and his lower leg jerked. He said something had yanked his ankle. I thought he was kidding. Still we finished up before dark and got out of there.

The next afternoon, he went back to give the key to the landlord, who hadn’t yet arrived. My husband decided to take a last look through the house to make sure we hadn’t left anything behind. He started in the garage and worked his way through the living areas and up the hall. He was in our bedroom when he heard the front door slam and footsteps head up the hall. He assumed it was the landlord and came out to greet him. There was no one there.

He locked up and left the key in the mailbox. Years later, I found out that a man who had lived there with his wife and child had gradually descended into a brain tumor-induced madness and regularly beat up his family.

Paranormal research revealed that hauntings activated by people moving out of a house are not uncommon. Perhaps our leaving set off the nasty footstep “tape” because he man’s family left him.

While I often return to the subject of forest elementals in my fiction -- Big Jack and the greenjacks in Bad Things, or the Forest Knight -- a twist on the ancient epic poem, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight in The Sorority trilogy -- I have never thought much about these creatures as part of the real world. At least not until a recent trip to New England.

Elementals are not of human origin. They are nature spirits, usually categorized as powers of earth, air, fire, and water. They live among the earliest stories told by humanity and they are the force behind most holidays even now (though the influence is very indirect at this time). Christians incorporated Green Men into their churches -- or rather cunning pagan artisans added them, to keep alive the old ways. The Christmas tree? Pagan. And Easter? Even the word is a variant on the name of a pagan fertility goddess.*

But I digress. All cultures have stories about elementals and the variation that fascinates me the most is the forest or woodland elemental -- the Green Man. Often personified as a man made of root, vine, and leaves, or presented simply as a powerful presence marked by whirlwinds of leaves, or sounds in the brush, the Green Man is the lord of forest, or field or other glade. He may even be lord of a desert oasis or a few cacti. However presented, the imagery captivates me.

So when we recently experienced an anomaly at the edge of a forest in Boothbay Harbor, Maine, I have to admit that it was really cool.

Literally. Downright cold.

We had chosen a remote island resort for a night of peace and quiet after attending Necon in Rhode Island. Our plan was to tour New England after the conference, staying at various haunted locales. The island getaway at Boothbay Harbor was the only overnight spot we hadn't chosen for its haunted reputation. We chose it because it offered a quiet balcony over water with islands and little fingers of forested land poking into the harbors; things foreign and delightful to south westerners.

We arrived in the afternoon, after stopping in town to pick up a picnic feast to have in the room. Once we turned off onto the one-way road to the resort and began crawling through the thick woods, we were enchanted. The woodland was alive, close – the only thing we could see around us was the forest. I thought of the scene in The Haunting of Hill House where Eleanor drove through the woods to see Hill House for the first time – because that’s how it felt – alive and watching and waiting. As always, I assumed this was all the work of my imagination. Now I’m not so sure.

We finally cleared the forest and arrived at the resort. Our room was at the far end of the resort property, right up against the woods and water. Only a few other cars were in the little parking lot. It was lovely. We spent the hours until twilight walking along the waterfront at the edge of the forest. Then we sat on our second story balcony and looked across the water to the darkening woods and played a favorite game, one I brought with me from childhood. We watched the wind caress the trees and ferns, watched the movement of leaves and imagined we saw faces and creatures in the foliage. We entertained ourselves, talking about the wood sprites -- greenjacks! -- lurking in the long shadows of the woods. We imagined they cavorted around the edges of a lonely cabin across the water. Everything was perfect.

Finally, as fog began shrouding the water, we went indoors, unloaded the picnic from the fridge and settled in front of the TV. We were tickled. It was a Monday night and Haunted Travels was on the Travel Channel. It was just like dinner at home. We watched a Stargate rerun on two. It got late.

During these hours, Damien trekked downstairs to the car several times to retrieve things. The final time, somewhere around midnight, he came in and said, "I think somebody's out there." A few questions later, I'd decided maybe he'd sensed something not alive, grabbed the camera and dragged him back out onto the landing. He sensed it again, immediately, even near the well-lit room door. He said he felt as if he were being watched from all around. He's not the spooky type and he can wither breathing beings with a single glance if he wants. He's also very good at picking up on things. So I believed him. And I still do.

We ventured down the stairs. I felt nothing except the old childhood glee -- a spooky adventure! First, Damien walked down to the parking lot, to the edge of the forest and the lake while I stood on the steps and photographed him. He came back quickly, saying he still felt very strongly that something was watching him, from all around.

I insisted on going down while he used the camera. I stepped to the lakeside area he'd walked to and while I felt a little spooky thrill, there was nothing to validate it. I didn’t feel I was being watched, but that’s typical. Damien is the expert feeler (in, oh, so many ways!).

Then I walked across the parking lot, away from the water, and stopped at an empty parking slot next to the woods. Suddenly, something so cold that it felt like iced slime enveloped my left arm. A cold spot -- the second coldest I've ever felt -- and the first one to ever latch onto me. I hadn’t walked into it. It landed on me.

In the past, I've felt many cold spots, several of which were probably true anomalies, but never one so large and so cold and insistent. I've encountered big and small cold spots, felt small ones grow to larger balls as they absorb energy from a human, and once experienced one even colder. That last one, a typical "haunting" cold spot, began as a small ball of icy chill. I put my hand into it and it slowly, over about half an hour, gloved my hand, then arm to elbow, and eventually my shoulder, before a friend insisted that when she tried to touch me, it shocked her. She grabbed my other hand and literally yanked me out of the anomaly. I was annoyed at the time, but in the hours afterward, the paresthesia -- tingling ache -- was so strong in the affected arm, I guess I'm glad she did. Emphasis on "guess."

The Boothbay Harbor anomaly was almost as icy cold as that other frigid anomaly, however this one was not slow-moving, but agressively rapid, wrapping itself around my left arm without warning. Damien was very aware of it, even at a distance and kept taking pictures and telling me to get away from the woods. I stayed a moment longer, noted a slight feeling of dizziness and reluctantly heeded my mate's calls. When I climbed the stairs, the cold stayed on my arm, but the intensity lessened slightly. Outside our room, we took pictures of my arm, wishing we had an Infrared (IR) Thermometer to detect extreme temperature differences, and waited. The cold, lessened a bit more, but was still a very formidable cold spot. After a few more minutes, I finally agreed to go inside instead of grooving on the cold spot. Damien is usually right about such things and I'm so anomaly-happy I lose common sense (I'd be the one to go up the staircase in the classic stupid scary movie cliché -- as long as I thought it was just a ghost up there!).

I didn’t want to take the anomaly into the room, and had to resort to a sailor-mouth exorcism. As usual, that worked. (Some people implore the power of Christ, I find a mouthful of invective works best for me – to each his own. As long as it stops feeding the anomaly, it’s good.) The cold receded quickly, and we spent a peaceful night indoors. Though I would have been up for camping. . .

And that's the truth. What was it? I believe we encountered an energy anomaly, not an intelligence being, that's just how my brain works. Happily, I can never know for sure. Questions will always keep the mysteries alive, and that makes me happy. Concerning this anomaly, I could be wrong or right or a bit of both. In this case, because the momentary dizziness speaks of geomagnetic peculiarities, I, like most of my haplessly skeptical heroes, have to classify it as something that would be dangerous, had I strayed into the woods -- but only because it would probably severely impair my sense of direction.

But the wonder and awe creep past rationalizations, valid or not, and make it into a magic I love to explore in fiction. What if? And maybe someday I'll encounter something so strange that even I can't rationalize away, even a little.

So, since this is True Stuff, I’m telling you what happened and offering my opinion. But I just keep wondering: What if I'm wrong? Maybe a Green Man finally came out and shook my hand. . . er, arm! And wouldn’t that be just about the coolest thing ever?