True Ghost Stories: Jim Harold's Campfire 1

by Jim Harold

  Well, something was standing there, but I turned to your mom and told her to look and when we turned around it was gone. Well, it kind of scared me so we got out of there. I drove out and went down and went on the other road and started out of there. There were all kinds of birds, four or five of them, up along the bank. The funny thing was that they were the biggest birds I've ever seen. I had never seen anything like it.

  They were just really big birds; they had a wingspan of...I don't know how big they were, but boy, you could see them. I think there were about four of them. Then about every 50 feet or 100 feet you could see one or two up along the bank. That's what I saw. Your mom saw it too, but your mom didn't see the person standing there beside the car. This was back up in the mountains where there was no traffic or anything. I thought, Well, tomorrow you'll hear somebody say they saw a light, but I never did hear any more about it.

  I never did believe in things like that, but when I see something with my own eyes, then I believe it. And your mom was there, too, and I asked her, "What do you think that was?" She said, "I have no idea at all." We never did take another ride out there after that. Not at night, anyway. It's right up there in the mountains; it's all mountains. It's all wilderness. I never did see anything like that again; that was the only time. Yeah, it scared me a little bit.

  -Jim Harold, Sr.

  68. There's Someone in Here

  Me and my brother worked in the steel mill together. This must have been the late '50s or early '60s. We had been workin' the 3-to-11 shift, and we came home to our apartment over a bar in the city. Well, we came home and we ate something, we watched television a little bit, and then we went to bed.

  About 3 o'clock in the morning, something woke me up, I don't know what it was. I was lying on my side, and when I rolled over, this old fella was standing there above me. I remembered the guy: He used to come in the bar there all the time and I used to talk to him, get him a few drinks, ya know?

  He must've been up in his 80s. Anyway, one time I was in there I asked the fella that owned it, "What happened to the old fella that used to come in here?" He said, "Well, he passed away." I never thought anything more about it.

  Well, here was that guy over my bed about half a year after that. When I woke up, it scared me and I kind of swung at it, and nothin' was there but air. I hollered real loud for my brother. He got up out of bed and came around and he said, "Aww, you're having a nightmare."

  I should say it was in the summertime so the windows were open because it was real hot, but our apartment was up about three stories. So nobody could've come through a window. Me and my brother, we started checking all around the apartment. All the doors were locked and there was only one window open—nobody could've gotten in there.

  Well, he said "You're having a nightmare; you should forget it." So I went back to sleep and didn't think any more about it. And about two weeks later, in the middle of the night, I heard my brother holler. So I jumped up and he told me, he said, "Jim, there's somebody in here." And we checked all around and he described the old guy to me and I said, "Well, that's the same one I saw in here." He didn't think it was a nightmare then!

  We stayed there two or three years after that, and we never did ever see anything else. I know it wasn't a dream. I never believed in ghosts, but when I see one with my own eyes, then I believe it because I've seen it.

  -Jim Harold, Sr.

  69. AK-47s Can Make You a Believer

  This first-person account of mine is not "paranormal," per se, but, similar to the upcoming "Why I Hate Logging Trucks" chapter, it makes me ponder questions of coincidence, fate, and destiny. Are some things meant to be, while others aren't? You be the judge.

  It was the summer of 1994, and I was very much in love with my new girlfriend, Dar—still am, in fact. She has been my wife for the last 14 years, and I am blessed. Though we are thankfully still very into each other, that summer was a special time for us—a time without a mortgage, kids, or many adult responsibilities. Most of you know that thrill when you first start going out with someone. That person is perfect! Every minute is a revelation, and every experience is accentuated. So, we were having a great time...one of the best of my life.

  All that week, we were looking forward to the weekend. Every weekend was a party for us. We weren't particularly wild; our average weekend entailed seeing a movie or going out drinking a bit with our friends. In short, it was a heck of a lot of fun. This weekend was going to be even better than usual: Thanks to my menial job at a local radio station, we got free tickets to one of the best amusement parks in the country, Cedar Point. We were going to go with a couple of friends and their family. We were jazzed about it.

  At 24, I was still a kid in many ways. I loved roller coasters and amusement parks. The trip would also be a chance to get out of my house, which I hated. I grew up in the Broadway area of Cleveland, in the city. Once a proud, working-class area, it had fallen into ruin. About eight months before this story begins, I had moved to a Slavic Village home that was considered a slight move up from where I'd grown up. It was an old, two-story, A-frame house, dark blue in color. I wasn't crazy about it. It was too much house for me; I didn't have the furniture to fill it—I was making slave wages at the station—and it seemed unsafe. Next door, there seemed to be a bunch of unsupervised teenagers who had taken up residence. I had told Dar my concerns, and she said I was being paranoid. But, I had this feeling...

  In fact, I had just signed a lease for a modest apartment in the suburbs where—guess what—Dar lived. But it wouldn't be ready for a few weeks, so I was stuck in Slavic Village. I had told my landlord that week that I would be moving soon. I don't think he was thrilled with it, but he was a very good guy. He liked me because I didn't have crazy parties or tear up his place, and I paid my rent on time like clockwork.

  Back to Cedar Point: We went that Saturday and had the great time we had predicted. Little did I know as were driving home that it could have been my last good time—or my last time experiencing anything at all on this earth, if things had worked out slightly differently...

  My friends had driven us all because they had a minivan, and they dropped Dar and me at my place at about 1:30 a.m. to pick up my car so I could drive her home, about 40 minutes away. All the way there, she insisted that I ask her father, Antonio, if I could sleep on their couch overnight. She was very concerned that I would fall asleep driving back to my place. She was right; I was exhausted, but I was very reluctant to stay. Her father scared the hell out of me. He was an Italian-born working-class guy and not exactly what you'd call "warm and fuzzy." Don't get me wrong, he was always nice to me, but I could see that he would probably not be so nice if you crossed him. At that point, Dar and I had only been going out for about four months, and I didn't feel that I was in a position to ask to sleep over. In fact, I was dead set against it.

  Still, after about 30 minutes of jawboning, I gave in. I slept over, there were no problems, and we all actually had a nice family breakfast the next morning. At that point, I could tell that I had been accepted by her father. Dar later told me that her dad would never have done that for anyone else she'd dated. It was a high compliment.

  I drove home that Sunday, feeling happy. Feeling good about pretty much everything. Even though it had been only four months, I could see that Dar and I had a long-term future. I drove up to my house and parked on the street, right in front of my erstwhile abode.

  Across the street, I saw Dave, the landlord's son. He was talking to a neighbor and pointing toward our side of the street. I walked over to see what was up.

  "Hi Dave, what's going on?" I asked innocently—I was very green. "We've got to talk," he said, "there's been a drive-by."

  Still clueless, I asked him whose house had been hit. "Our house," he said.

  Upon further examination while we walked over to the wounded two-story, I could see holes in the windows and the wooden siding.

  In 1994, this was certainly a "changing" neighborhood,
but still considered one of the city's safer areas. Several years later, it would really start a downhill slide, but not yet. Not in 1994.

  It turns out that several rounds of armor-piercing AK-47 fire had been launched into our home sometime in the early morning hours, while I was peacefully sleeping on Antonio's couch. Talking to Dave, I could tell that he was shaken. He lived in the back of the house and slept on the first floor, and live rounds had flown around him when all of this went down.

  I went into my apartment and was astonished at the sight. The double-door fridge that my uncle had given me had a hole in both exterior walls and the internal one, too. A ketchup bottle inside had taken a direct hit. My poor microwave, which I'd only had for a couple of months, had been used for target practice, and didn't stand a chance. I always slept on the second floor, and no rounds had landed there, but if I'd been there, could these would-be assassins have been lying in wait for me? Would I have gotten thirsty in the middle of the night, and ventured into to the firing zone for a drink of water? Who knows?

  According to the landlord's son, the police who came to investigate were astonished that such a violent act had taken place in this relatively peaceful neighborhood. So, they wanted to know more about me...I guess they initially thought I might be some kind of underworld kingpin or drug dealer. If you knew me personally, you'd realize how truly hilarious that is! I laugh even now thinking about it.

  Later that day, with the help of my friend who had gone with us to Cedar Point, I got all of my belongings out of my house and into his garage. I never stayed another night in what had become a modern-day O.K. Corral. Because my apartment wouldn't be ready for another month, I stayed in Antonio's spare room—I must really have passed the test!

  But why was my house shot up? Remember those unsupervised teenagers next door? Well, my dear Dar was wrong. I wasn't being paranoid; I was being observant. Having lived in the city for 23 years must have given me some street smarts. The kids were no good—and, worse, they lived in a light-blue house next to my dark-blue one. It seems they had been involved in the theft of some motorcycle parts. I made myself scarce after the shooting happened, so I don't have many details, but they may have crossed a gang of some type. Bad move.

  Luckily for the teenagers next door, at the time of the shooting, it was dark, and the street lights lent an orange tint to everything. So, when the shooters were told to hit a blue house on our block, their light-blue house looked white, whereas mine looked very blue—bang bang: dead fridge and microwave.

  As I said at the beginning, this story is not paranormal, per se. However, it is one hell of a coincidence. Would I have been killed if I had been there that night? Maybe.

  A great marriage and two kids later, I often think of that night, and how things could have been different. So, when somebody asks me if I believe in fate I say, "There's a good shot there's something to it!"

  -Jim Harold

  70. Why I Hate Logging Trucks

  While visiting my cousin in West Virginia in the late '80s, I had an experience that I'll never forget. It was really weird, and potentially fatal.

  One of the things I loved to do in West Virginia was walk around and experience the majestic beauty of Mother Nature. Though my family was from the sticks, I was born and bred in the inner city. Not the suburbs, but the cold, hard city. Growing up I could see the smokestacks of the steel mills of Republic Steel from my house. So getting to breathe the fresh air was quite a treat.

  After a few days of my expeditions, I heard through the grapevine (my cousin) that one of the neighbor girls liked the cut of my jib. [Author's Note: I was pretty cute back then.]

  Anyhow, I was leaving later this particular day to go back to the big city, but somehow the neighbor girl and I had arranged to meet through my cousin. Our big rendezvous was a 15-minute walk through the small town. I can't imagine what we thought would come of it; this was pre-Internet so no Skyping here.

  After talking and walking, we came up to a large logging truck parked on the side of the road. We split up, and each of us walked on one side of the truck with a huge load of chained logs, she on the left and I on the right. As I walked past it, something told me to get the hell away from that truck. I had the sense that those logs were going to fall off. I walked past the truck a little faster than I would normally have, and chalked the feeling up to my overactive imagination.

  We walked about another 15 feet and then we heard a loud noise behind us. Sure enough, the logs had fallen off exactly where I had been walking. I wasn't so paranoid after all. The girl and I walked a little more, and exchanged addresses. I don't think we ever communicated after that. I think were were both so freaked out we just decided to drop it then and there.

  So, Christine, wherever you are, I hope it's been a nice life so far. Continued best wishes. And one more thing: Stay away from those damned logging trucks.

  -Jim Harold

  71. Turn Your Radio On

  For those not familiar, Turn Your Radio On is the title of an old country gospel song.

  About a dozen years ago, I had an experience involving my radio. It did not pick up God, as the song suggests, but I am pretty sure that it picked up a signal from my brother, who had died just a few days before.

  My brother, Hughie, was autistic. I've mentioned it on my shows a few times. My parents were devoted to my brother and were determined not to "lock him away in a home." This I admire; their self-sacrifice was unbelievable. But I do think that they made him so dependent on them that they were actually hurting him, making him less self-sufficient than he could have been. That being said, now, as a parent of two young girls, I have no idea how I would have reacted to such a burden. It was an incredibly tough situation.

  My parents had moved to a rural area down south as I stayed in Ohio after college. I got married and bought a home, so I was staying put up north. I would generally visit them a couple times a year. We talked on a regular basis, so I was always up-to-date on everyone's health. Early in one particular week in February, my mom told me that they had taken my brother to the doctor because he had a very nasty cold. Three or four days later, I called and spoke to him. He could only speak in somewhat unintelligible words, but my mom put him on the line, I said hello, and he grunted "Hi" back.

  I could tell that he was very congested, and I expressed my concern. The next day at work, I worried about him and had a really ominous feeling. That night at about 10 p.m., my uncle called and said that they had taken Hughie to the nearest hospital about 20 miles away. He had been rushed there by an ambulance. He was having trouble breathing, so my parents acted quickly.

  After the call, I told my wife, Dar, that I thought my brother was going to die. She thought I was overreacting. He was still in his 20s, and there was no reason to think the doctors couldn't stabilize him at the hospital. But I was so worried that I stayed up until about 2 a.m. to hear what happened. When I got the call, I found out that, sadly, I was right. He had died from severe pneumonia. I was shocked; it seemed so surreal—impossible. That poor boy, to be born with autism and now—this.

  Dar, pregnant with our first daughter, and I packed up the next day and took the unenviable trip. It was horrible. My parents had so wrapped their lives around Hughie that it was as though their reason for being had evaporated. They might not like that I am writing this chapter. They have never gotten over Hughie's death; my brother's room is almost exactly the way it was when he died—more than a decade ago.

  The trip back home was tough. We talked about what had happened as I scanned around the radio and found a "Music of Your Life" station. I have always liked these stations because I love the music of Sinatra, Nat King Cole, and the like. Anyhow, taking a little comfort from the radio was something to draw my attention away from the terrible experience of the last week.

  My brother had liked music, too. He loved different kinds. Of all people, he really liked Lawrence Welk. When we were little kids in the '70s, Welk's show was still in syndication and Hughie h
ad taken quite a liking to it. Once the show went over to PBS he continued to watch it; it was a favorite. This was unusual for a 20-something, but Hughie's condition made him different from the average bear. It was fair to say that he thought Welk was "wunerful, wunerful," as Welk used to say on his shows. He was probably one of Hughie's top three or four favorite musicians.

  Anyhow, as I was talking to Dar in the car, I noticed this instrumental playing on the radio. The song sounded familiar but because it had no words, I couldn't figure it out. After it was over, the DJ about made me run off the road. "That, of course, was Lawrence Welk with his 1961 hit, 'Calcutta,'" said the announcer.

  You have to remember that, even in the late '90s, you did not hear Lawrence Welk on the radio, not even on an oldies station. It was highly unusual for that rather obscure cut to be played—and at the exact time we were driving in that area, on the exact station I'd turned to? I am convinced that Hughie was saying, somehow, "I'm alright, big brother, don't worry about me. It's okay."

  Somehow, he managed to communicate from the other side better than he could have when he was living with autism. I'm so glad I turned my radio on that day and heard his transmission. Here's mine if you're listening, Hughie. I love you, brother.

  -Jim Harold

  Bonus: "Herman," by Campfire Contest Winner Janese

  We thought that it would be fun to have a "Campfire Essay Contest" in which listeners could submit their stories of strangeness. Thanks to all of our entrants! Congratulations to listener Janese for her winning entry: "Herman."