The Day My Dad Heard Footsteps

I don’t believe in coincidence.

My late Father told stories. He had a LOT of stories. He never liked it when my siblings and I called them stories. “It’s not a story, damnit! It happened!” he would mutter with his eye brows squinted in frustration. Most of his stories would make you laugh, so much so that you would ask him to tell them over and over again. Some of his stories were sad but those were few and far between. There were a handful though that when told, they made you double check your doors at night and peep in on your kids to make sure they were still safe and sound. This photo is a product of one of those such stories and a reminder that he is still with us; telling stories.

I am going to tell you the story behind this picture. I am going to tell it as though he is telling it. After all, it is his story/experience. It’s a ghost story of sorts but it’s also a reminder that though he may have left us here on Earth, he is still very much with us and a part of our lives.

“I was 9 years old at the time. I had been at baseball practice all evening and it was getting dark. Back in those days we walked everywhere and with the sun setting I had to get a move on to get home before dark. There was an old graveyard that I would pass on the way to and from baseball practice. I never walked through the graveyard; always around it. But on this evening, for whatever reason, I decided to take a short cut through it. You see, right up the street from this cemetery stands a monument. This monument was constructed in memory of three people who were killed by a falling tree. No one ever knew how or why the tree fell but it did and it killed three people on their way home from Church on January 19th, 1896. I would always avoid this monument. I got the hebegeebees just looking at it. I was always afraid a tree would fall on me based on the stories I was told. I mean, what 9 year old wouldn’t? This played a lot into why I would never cross the cemetery. But what happened next makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck just thinking about it.[/vc_column_text]

Memorial in the woods

I walked up to the fence and remember thinking to myself ‘Here goes nothing’. I hopped the fence and started walking across, being careful not to walk overtop where I thought someone was buried. I was about half way across when I felt something odd. Like someone was there with me. Like someone was following me. I stopped. Looked around. Nothing. I slowly continued my trek across the cemetery and the feeling grew stronger and now I could actually hear someone walking behind me so I quickly turned back around and I could see the grass flattening as if someone was taking steps toward me. But there was no one there; only footsteps. I took off like a bat out of hell! I got to the fence and cleared it by about 2 feet but as I jumped I dropped my ball glove. I stopped for a brief second and contemplated going back for it because if I didn’t come home with it my old man would kick my ass but I could still see the footprints heading right for me! As far as I know, the glove still lays there to this day.”

So that is my Dad’s story. One that I heard dozens of times. One that when he told it I would stop what I was doing just to hear it once more.

I recently took a trip up to this cemetery to get some pictures and to reminisce about my Father who had recently lost his battle with Cancer. I thought I could get some pretty neat photos in the spirit of Halloween since it was a really old cemetery with some pretty neat history around it. It’s a few miles up into the mountain on a long, windy dirt road. What we witnessed when we got to the cemetery was crazy. Just crazy.

We pull up to the cemetery and we noticed there was an old truck parked next to the cemetery. I thought nothing of it at first. Then I started thinking back to my Dad’s story. My Dad was 9 years old when he experienced his ghostly encounter. He was 9 years old in 1952. This truck is a 1952 Ford. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

1952 Ford Haunted Graveyard
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