I'm not insane but I had enough experiences during childhood and adolescence to make me believe in paranormal activies, and both my
belief, and the activities responsible, have continued to the present day.
Begin at the the beginning, I suppose...
I don't remember experiencing anything "otherwordly" until I was about nine or ten years old (1976/77). At that time, I still had a
number of mementos from childhood (including an old "Winnie the Pooh" doll on my bed and a papier-mache/tissue paper clown hanging
on my wall) scattered about my room while I began the transition into "young manhood," replete with models and science-fiction books.
The clown had played merry hell with my fears since a month after I made it (fifth grade art class), and I decided one night to get
rid of it. I thought I'd "accidentally" spill something on it (trip while holding a soda, perhaps?) and *force* my mother to let
me throw it out. She thought it was cute. Gak. I didn't.
Well, three sodas later (and I thought it was just bad aim), the wall was soaked and the clown was dry. (BTW - yes, I've seen bits
of the movie "Poltergeist," but not until I was eighteen and out of the house.) I'd had enough, so I wiped down the wall (thank
heavens the paint wasn't ruined), took down the clown and threw it away, then went to bed.
I remember dreaming (?) that it walked back in and said "naughty boy," but it wasn't there in the morning, so I went to school;
however, when I returned home, it was there. At first I thought my mother had retrieved it and put it back up, but she'd gone on to
work after dropping me off at school. I shrugged, took it down (again) and threw it out, making sure to push it to the bottom of
the garbage can, and putting a sack of trash on top of it. I really didn't like that clown.
I did homework, then read a bit, and when my mom got home, she took me and my younger over to my grandmother's for dinner.
It was back on my wall when we got back.
Needless to say, I was . . . somewhat more than nonplussed. I remember crying and telling my mother that "I keep throwing the
clown away and it keeps coming back!" She told me I had an overactive imagination, and to keep the noise down.
That night I had a difficult time sleeping. It felt like the clown was watching me. Finally, I got out of bed, walked over to it
and whispered "what do you want? Why won't you just go away?"
Nothing answered me. Just a clown.
I shrugged, went down the hall to use the restroom, then went back to bed.
The clown was in my bed.
I screamed, waking my mother (my stepfather was... well, probably only one to two sheets to the wind, and wasn't about to wake up).
She chastised me for "forgetting" that I wanted to sleep with it. She swore that I had told her (through her bedroom door, as she
undressed) that I was going to sleep with it, so I wouldn't be scared of it any more. Unfortunately (for my peace of mind), I did
*not* say anything of the sort.
I put the clown back on the wall (using tongs -- I wasn't going to touch it!) and lay down to go to sleep. Just before I drifted off,
I swear the thing rotated its (flat) head and began chuckling -- a dry, dusty sound, like dead leaves scraping across an old
tombstone.
I don't remember quite how I got rid of it, but the next day, it was gone, and stayed gone. (No, I didn't pray to Jesus to save
-- I was too busy trying not to widdle myself over it.)
Well, that was the beginning of what would become a lifelong association with the (unseen/unheard/barely perceived) paranormal.
Some experiences were better, some worse... but this... I never forgot it, and I still hate clowns to this day.
