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I was seventeen and a young soldier in 1965 on reassignment orders to a U.S. Army overseas facility at Kaiserslautern, Germany.

I reported for duty only to find that the unit was deactivating, then in the process of moving all of its soldiers to new locations. The sergeant told me to go find myself a cot in one of the vacant rooms, that I could have my pick as to which, that I would be notified in a few days as to my new orders.

It was on day two that I met two other soldiers in the same boat; however, unlike me, they’d taken up temporary residence on another floor. We became friends, mainly taking our meals together, avoiding all authority while waiting for our new assignments.

The room I selected was on the second floor of the drafty, old, stone structure that I reasoned had in the past housed many German soldiers. But now all was quiet, and as I learned a vacant billet was an understatement regardless of who used to call it home. It was like a ghost town.

My room was empty of all furnishings except for two other cots. No one was claiming either and I enjoyed the privacy knowing it would be short lived once my orders came.

On day three after a good night's rest I woke to the door opening. In stepped a young soldier, about my age, wearing a dress green uniform and sporting a green beret. He stopped at the doorway and asked if he might join me in the room? I welcomed him to come in, so much for privacy, and quickly pointed out that I recognized him as a Special Forces soldier, the beret he wore cocked on his head being a dead give away for same.
He smiled.

Closing the door, he stood next to my cot where we engaged in further conversation. I could see by the black plastic name tag he wore that his last name was similar to my own:

-- His name was BRIDGER, mine BRIDGES.

I pointed out this fact, excited as I had not encountered another soldier with a similar name as mine. He told me he and his family were firmly rooted in North Carolina. I told him mine was from Kentucky. We exchanged further small talk at which time I again brought up his green beret. That's when he explained that he really wasn't Special Forces; that he really wasn't even old enough to be in the army; that by some trickery he had managed to join with a group of real Special Forces soldiers that had deployed to a place far from his home, a place called Vietnam.

I had not heard of Vietnam, and told him so. To which he explained to my amazement that he had been caught by surprise almost immediately upon arrival in the jungle there -- and shot -- and killed.

What? I will admit I was surprised by what he was saying but at the same time found his story, and his manner in an oddly and curious kind of way, quite believable. He explained further that as he lay on the ground dying he had wished he had not tricked anyone; that he had stayed with family and friends back in North Carolina and not gone to Vietnam; and, how he had wished with all his might to be able to visit with another soldier, a relative. And that was me.

The names were different but he claimed we were related and that's why he was there in my room. His wish had been granted if only in part. Saying beyond that he had little understanding as to why he was there in my room and became visually surprised that he was in Germany.

After a few minutes more he moved to one of the vacant cots and lay down. I got up and dressed in my fatigues and was lacing my boots when my two buddies came crashing into the room with purpose of gathering me up to go to the mess hall for lunch. One of the two sat on the edge of the cot where BRIDGER lay quietly looking over at me, listening to the general festive conversation then happening from the two, but himself not participating.

I thought this rude that no one had acknowledged BRIDGER’s presence so I asked if it would be okay if BRIDGER joined us? They looked at each other, and at me, seemingly lost as to what I was asking.

BRIDGER said they couldn't see him. That no one else could see him. He said he would stay until we left and then he’d continue on with his journey.

That sounded strange but so had everything else up to that point.

Caught up in my two friend’s insistence, we left the room with BRIDGER looking over and waving goodbye as the door closed behind us.

Thinking this had been an elaborate ruse at my expense, I laughed and said so, bringing up the matter again as we continued down the stairs; but again to vacant stares and comments they had no idea what I was talking about.

I tried relaying BRIDGER's story as we went but they wouldn’t listen. Seated in the dining facility, they insisted they saw no one in my room and asked that I drop this idiotic conversation for more logical chit chat. I was beginning to believe they actually hadn’t seen BRIDGER and perhaps I might be losing my mind.

Upon returning to my room BRIDGER was gone, never to be seen by me again.

My new orders came that day and that was the last I saw of my two lunch buddies. For which I was thankful, for I was sure they thought me completely nuts.

Nearly ten years later I learned our family name of BRIDGES had in fact long ago been BRIDGER. My ancestors had migrated from North Carolina and taken up residence in Kentucky.

Submitted by Jerry Bridges


On April 8, 1990, at 8:30 pm, I received a phone call from my brother. We were three time zones apart. He informed me that tonight was THE night. I knew what that meant. It was only a week earlier than originally scheduled and I was counting days. I had depended on having at least seven more days of sharing with him what time he had left. Since my last visit with him, I spoke to him daily by telephone; generally once in the morning and again during the early evening hours. I had spent a week with him just six weeks earlier, knowing it would be our last visit. He forbade tears in his presence. He was in good spirits and not morose about his impending death at all. During that particular visit, we spoke of death and pondered the afterlife and what it may or may not be. We both believed that we are energy life forms and therefore the energy must go somewhere. When we parted from that visit, I hugged goodbye an almost skeleton. He was quickly wasting away.

This particular April evening would be the last time we would speak. Our conversation lasted only thirty minutes. All arrangements were in place. I knew he was in good hands. I wished him peace and a smooth way. I hung up the phone and I went out on my back porch. There was a full moon. I cried long and hard knowing I was about to lose one of my life’s best friend.

I went to bed at 10:30 that evening. My mind was recalling past events that involved my brother and me. Memories. Fun ones, happy ones. I saw him on his first bicycle riding off to school. He rode his bike along side me as I walked and he made crazy eights and circles, and we chatted away until we had to part ways. I walked on to my high school and he rode off to grade school. I watched him pedal up the tree lined street on an early Spring morning. I was so happy for him that he finally had his long awaited bicycle.

I cried off and on and couldn't sleep. I dreaded the expected phone call that would advise me all was finished, but at the same time I would welcome it. My brother's suffering would be over. I kept glancing at the digital clock on my nightstand. The numbers glowed a sky blue and cast a soft light in the darkness of the room. Each time I would calculate the time where my brother was. My last glance at the clock before I mercifully dozed off read a few minutes before two a.m.

I was awakened by a light tickling right between my eyes. I surmised it was cat whiskers and I opened my eyes expecting to see my cat in my face. But there was nothing. I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep for only a few seconds and felt the tickle again in the very same spot. This time I smoothed the blanket down and looked for the cat. But from the corner of my eye off to my right side, I caught a tiny dot of light hovering about eight inches from my head. A tiny dot of bright white light in the semi-darkness that did not belong there. I turned my head and focused on the light and once I did this, the light began to expand and it drifted away from me.

The light had my full attention and I was trying to discern what I was seeing, although I could not recall ever seeing anything of its kind before. I became aware of a steady, even hum. Yet, I was unable to discern if I was actually hearing this hum or feeling the vibration of sound. It was similar to the experience of holding a tuning fork and striking it. The steadiness and evenness of the sound/vibration was incredible!! The light had grown and now filled the entire corner of the room. It was a soft light now and it had depth dimension to it, but I could see my bedroom furniture through it and the light now had rainbow colors within it. It had grown from a bright dot of light to something more defined with color and depth, but less bright. All this occurred in the space of about forty-five seconds. I then remembered the plight of my brother and the light quickly faded away. I turned and looked at the clock. It was 3:12 am.

I awoke just before 7am. I received the awaited phone call at 9:50 am. My brother’s suffering was over. The remainder of the day seemed like a fog. There was the realization and finality, the memories, the loss, the pain. Already I missed my brother and still do. As the day turned to evening I suddenly recalled the light and the hum that awakened me in the early morning hours. I remembered it was 3:12 am when I last saw it. I raced to the telephone and called the person who would know the answer to my question. What time did my brother die? I was told between 6:00 – 6:30am. In my time zone that would be between 3:00 – 3:30am.

I began laughing and crying at the same time. That light! That hum! Was that my brother’s energy force communicating to me?? The deliberate yet soft tickle between the eyes, the waiting for my full attention and focus just to show me that yes, the energy does go somewhere and it is conscious and aware and has purpose. I could almost hear my brother laughing as I began connecting the dots. And I knew that he knew that this demonstration would comfort me at this time and I would hold it in my memory forever. A treasured last goodbye.

Submitted by N. Abele


One family's experience in the state's oldest community.

Our family moved to a small eastern Washington community in 1989 where I took a job with the City. One of my responsibilities was the overall management of the cemetery. It dated back to 1854 and had roughly 6,300 burials. Early in 1990 I hired a sextant to make an effort to correlate all of the cemetery records through an on site review and then we would compare the records at City Hall to see where it would come out. During the preceding years, I and the office staff had data based all of the city's cemetery records.

By the spring of 1993, I had a very strong knowledge of this cemetery and its various sections.
At the time, we were living a few blocks away in one of the community's older homes. My wife and children professed a great amount of anxiety and fear over what they perceived as an incessant amount of strange occurrences in this house, none of which they were able to explain. I frankly was very skeptical, although we had lived in homes before that had a lot of paranormal activity. I decided to check out this one. A number of the City staff had lived in town all of their lives. Upon inquiry to one of my clerks, I was informed that at one time there had been a third floor on this house that had burned during the war. There had been a fatality. Consensus seemed to indicate that the casualty was a young man. This entity was very mischievous. Apparently, he enjoyed turning on water faucets, opening washing machine doors, turning on or off lights, slamming doors etc. I was skeptical of these claims.

One Saturday night I got up to visit the bathroom. The only light that was on in the house was in the hallway. When I exited the bathroom, I was quite surprised to see that the only lights that were not on were in the bedrooms. The front room, dining, kitchen, and laundry room lights were all turned on. I decided that the family was right, we need to move.

The very next morning, I was on a walk through the cemetery when I noticed a young woman in a faded dress standing in front of a headstone in one of the older parts of the cemetery. The dress looked like an early 20th century wedding dress. I turned and walked over to where she was standing. She appeared to be in her twenties. She was slim, long brown hair and of medium height. She was looking down at the headstone with a very sad look on her face. I quickly surveyed the cemetery. There were not any vehicles or other people in the cemetery. From where I stood, I could see all of the grounds. She vanished as I approached. I noticed a man's name on the headstone. I wondered what could be happening since she probably wasn't buried here. The name on the front was that of a man, Slocumb. But, since the stone was four sided I decided to check the back of it. It was the only Jewish headstone in the cemetery. It was unique in shape and I had remembered it from previous trips to the cemetery.
The name Emma Moore was on the rear of the stone. She died at age 26 in the early part of that century. A daughter, maybe. A check of the City's burial records confirmed that they were both buried in this grave. Sad.... Never more Emma Moore.

We soon found another house and moved ASAP. The children were becoming paranoid and my wife was unhappy with the current arrangements. Peace at last, I thought. Wrong. It wasn't long before the children began complaining about noises in the basement and footfalls on the stairs coming up from the basement. One afternoon, several months later, I was home preparing lunch when I heard footfalls coming up the stairs. They were located directly behind the kitchen and these footfalls were quite loud. I sprang to my feet and ran to the door at the top of the stairs. This will end right now, I thought. As I opened the door, A wispy figure of a middle aged woman scooted by me and into the kitchen where she soon vanished. That afternoon I checked with the long time residents again about the prior occupants of that house. The building inspector informed me that a woman fitting the description had lived there about twenty years earlier. She died in a plane crash a few miles west of town. The call went out again, we're moving. We subsequently found a fairly new home that had no complications.

I then received a phone call from a local car mechanic that had moved into our prior residence. He stated that he had heard about our experiences in this house and that he and his family had recently moved into this house and was having some strange experiences. What kind I asked? He stated that he had placed their three month old child into a play pen in a side bedroom. When he entered the room some twenty minutes later to check on the baby, he found it crawling around on the floor outside of the pen. How could that happen I asked ? I don't know he responded. What should I do he asked ? MOVE I said.
Move. Now....

Submitted by Don Avery