Shadows in the Doorway

As a child, I spent anywhere from one to four nights a week at my grandparent’s home while my mother worked evening or night shifts. They lived next door, in what I’ve come to view as the classic two-story farmhouse of the region. It was an old house, with dark corners, creaky floors and stairs. When my grandfather tore it down at the beginning of the 90s, it was just over a century in age, and had been moved at least once, possibly twice, in its history.

I had more than my share of experiences in that house, including things that could be passed off as normal childhood imagination. One full body apparition, two shadow people and countless spirits partially seen or only vaguely heard later and I was hooked into the paranormal for the rest of my life. I’ve written of my encounter with ‘The Chief’ before; the full body apparition of a native elder, in full headdress, standing at the end of the hallway upstairs. In the days following the incident, I allowed myself to be comforted by my grandparents and mother when they told me it was nothing more than the over-active imagination of a sleepy child on Halloween. Since then though, I’ve listened with great attention when my daughter or other family members have spoken of him. I was not the only one to run across ‘The Chief.’

The years since have taken some of the detail from my memories, such as dates and my age at various stages of activity within the house. I recall one night, well before my twelfth year, I awoke to the sounds of laughter and chat coming from downstairs. My grandfather’s army buddies were over, and they had broken out the ‘good stuff.’ When I rolled over, intending to sneak to the top of the stairs to eavesdrop on the stories and music, I saw the shadows of two men at the doorway. I didn’t move or speak; I didn’t recognize them, and I knew all of my grandfather’s buddies. Something wasn’t right.

For one thing, the tiny night-light in the room should have cast a meager bit of light on their faces, but there was nothing, absolutely no faces – just an uncompromising blackness. I could sense more than see that they were wearing suits with overcoats. The tall one wore a hat, the peak of which was just barely under the top of the doorway. The shorter one was much shorter, the top of his bare head close to mid-body of the tall one. There was hardly even definition between where his head and shoulders were, other than a slight size difference, as though he had no neck.

The short one moved a bit, and the tall one responded in words; “She’s not ready yet.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, and took a deep breath, intending on yelling out to my grandfather. When I opened them, the shadows were gone, and the light in the hall was out.

The tall one was too tall to be my grandfather or any of his friends. The short one, too short. None of them wore overcoats nor a hat like that. My grandfather was the only one I can recall even owning a fedora, but the tall one’s hat had a wider brim than a regular fedora did. The shadows were not part of the party from the kitchen, I am sure of that.

One thing that validated the experience was my grandmother’s reaction to my story the next day. She wouldn’t speak of it, and told me not to worry about it. That was the last night I slept in that room, though, and they moved my belongings to the next room, my old room remaining unused until the house was demolished. I’ve thought about this incident many times over the years and those words—“She’s not ready yet” —have haunted me far more than any of the spirits we live with.

My brush with shadow people was followed by something that I haven’t seen mentioned in any books or anywhere online in all the years I’ve searched for it. Between that episode and my twelfth year, I experienced intermittent flashing accompanied by a popping sound. Anyone over a certain age will remember the old-style flash bulbs one could attach to a camera, it was like that. A faint popping sound, immediately followed by a bright flash. It would happen when I was with a crowd of people, or when I was alone. At night, during the day, it didn’t matter. I was the only one to hear the popping sound, the only one to see the flash.

After my first solid psychic occurrence at age twelve, those stopped and the shadows returned, but never as clear or as vocal as that night, and never together, either. Now it’s either one or the other, and I only catch glimpses of them, despite my efforts to form some sort of contact with them.

I would love to read the experiences of others, particularly if you’ve had ‘flash-bulb’ incidents, so feel free to get in touch. My research address is – leelite <{@}>mts.net.

Jodi Lee