Memory of a Figure

As some readers may already know I have an obsessive personality. Through various stages in my life I delve deep into one subject or another: film, fantasy writing, maps, sports, travel, etc. At this particular juncture in my life I have been researching the paranormal side of our reality. My father and I both have always held an interest in the unexplainable side of the world.

The post that follows may not interest everyone, but I wanted to x/post it over from /r/Thetruthishere subreddit. It’s a story that I believe to be true. I leave out possible explanations or further thoughts from this post but if you’re interested you can read more and ‘up vote’ at this address:



I’ve spent much of my life, as many do, trying to face down certain fears. I can bravely say that I have always been an afraid person: I slept in my parents room well beyond a reasonable age. If I would use the restroom at night every light would have to be turned on and only turned off when I was safely back in my room. I still have difficulty sleeping with my back to an open space. Growing up with these simple fears and growing into manhood, I spent much of my time proving to myself and others that I was brave, fearless. I have experienced many amazing situations due to this need of courage: I have slept nights under the stars on the Appalachian and Pacific Crest Trails. I’ve crossed the United States twice opting to sleep at sometimes isolated rest stops instead of hotels. I explored off the beaten path foreign countries to maintain that I was strong enough to face the world.

Childhood Home

I say all this because, for me, this post is to explore an experience in my life; in my memory, that I can never explain. It isn’t necessarily scary. I wasn’t afraid at the time of the experience, but I am still afraid to remember it. Sometimes I’m curious if all my fears are derived from this moment.

I grew up in rural Central Georgia (U.S.A.) on a small soybean farm. My father had chosen to build his home on a dirt road less than a quarter of a mile from his parents; my grandparents. I spent most of my summer days with my grandmother as it was a free source of childcare. I was not an easy kid to handle behaviorally. I talked back, threw fits when I did not get my way, and explored/plundered endlessly. My grandmother was always serious about her cooking. She has spent much of her life in the kitchen feeding my entire family. I would dig through cabinets and drawers as she battered and fried any food under the sun. My grandmother would get understandably frustrated with my rambunctiousness while she cooked. In order to remedy this her tactic was to tell me to take whatever item I had found that day into the living to watch TV.


Grandmother Eloise

I vividly remember being 5 years old; an age not easily recalled. I remember it as if it were a dream from the night before.

On this particular day, under the china cabinet, I had found a wicker basket full of rocks or stones. Some were smooth; polished with jagged edges. Another was bigger; made of a more porous stone with a bowl-like area worn into it. I had these and several other pieces strewn about the floor in front of me examining them, imagining for what purpose they might be used.

Native Artifacts

Over my shoulder towards the kitchen doorway where my grandmother would be, cooking, I began to feel her presence. Assuming it was just her checking in on me I ignored the feeling. The feeling might have turned into something stronger, because eventually I turned around to look behind me.

In the doorway stood a man. The exposed skin of his body looked red: a deeper, more copper skin than I had ever seen before or seen since this day. I remember a muscular build and colorful garments; although, I can’t remember with a clear enough accuracy the style of clothing. Any attempts to remember clothes seems like a polluted thought imposed upon by stereotypical Native American garb.

This man, I remember, looked directly at me. He then turned to the back portion of the small country house and once again back at me. Without a word from either of us he turned and began walking in the direction he had gazed; out of my sight.

After a moment of naive thought I stand and follow to where I had seen this copper-skinned man. I am now standing in the doorway to the kitchen visible to my grandmother; and also where the vision had stood. I look expecting to see him in the parlor-like area beyond the dining area. To my confusion the man was outside of the house. Seen through the panes of glass in a closed window. He was disappearing into the soybean stalks.

“Jon. You ok?” my grandmother called me back to reality.

My memory fails me here yet again. I can’t recall if I asked her then and there if she had seen the man, but in more recent conversations she has expressed not remembering the day, but verified that I often played with the arrowheads and Indian artifacts. I don’t remember having spoken about this event openly for some time afterwards.

I do remember being still young and forming my first concepts of Native Americans and having these events spur terrifyingly back into my consciousness.

Harvesting soybeans with my grandfather in a combine tractor one afternoon we drove over a dry, sandy spot in the field. I asked him why nothing grew there. His answer caused me great fear.

The dry spot, he said, was a natural occurring irrigation route. He collected many of the arrowheads and the grinding stone along the sand here. He said it was possible a family of Creek Indians had lived on this land we now owned.

I don’t remember being afraid of the events that day until later in life. I grew into the fear as I pieced together, still as a child, that I had seen something currently, that may have existed previously.

The fear that I still battle today may be contributed to learning a concept for the paranormal before I was able to attempt to understand the paranormal.


Framed Arrowheads from around the property


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