Yuputka (n.): the phantom sensation of something crawling on your skin.
I chose today’s story after a trip to a battlefield memorial (more on Thursday’s post). Have you ever accidently crashed a funeral? Or talked to a recently deceased stranger? Enjoy this short story about an unworldly encounter.
My Aunt and Uncle live in Boise, in a fairly new housing development next to the veteran’s cemetery. Thanksgiving is the one time of year that we all get together, and as there are about 50 of us, it can get get kind of crazy. So I decided to take their lab for a walk around the neighbourhood and get some fresh air. A couple of blocks away, I stop and sit down on a park bench. I’m petting the dog and looking at stars when suddenly I see this guy walking towards me. He’s about my age (late 20’s) and is wearing jeans and a desert military cammo jacket. Normal looking, with short dark hair. Kind of cute in a quiet way (I’d been single for a long time at that point, so I was hyper-aware of the men folk). As he gets closer, the dog freaks the shit out- just about jerked me off the bench and started yipping. The guy kind of stops, looks at me and dog and says, “Sorry, dogs normally like me”. At this point he’s maybe ten feet away from me, and I can see him well enough to read the cloth name tag on the coat- Williamson. I said, “No worries, which way are you headed?” (we were at a weird intersection, and I wanted to make sure that the dog and I would be going the opposite way since she was freaking out). He points down the street, starts heading in that direction, and says “Have a nice night.” I said “You too” and leaned down to calm the dog down. I look up about twenty seconds later, and the guy is gone. Which is crazy, because I can see at least a block in every direction. But whatever, maybe he went into one of the houses right? At that point the dog was perfectly calm, so we went on home with no more problems. The next day I go up to the cemetery to take some pictures, and run into one of the caretakers. We get to talking, and I asked him how often they have funerals there. He tells me at least a couple a week, mostly older people. And then mentions that they had a burial two days before, a young man who had been killed in Iraq. I asked him were the man had been from, and he answered, “He was from Mountain Home, his last name was Williamson.” I flashed back to the night before, got massive chills, and promptly excused myself.
I don’t know what’s creepier, seeing a ghost, or the fact that had the dog not been there and freaking out, I probably would have hit on said ghost.