What seems like a very long time ago my room mate and I were on a cross country trip through the Western portion of the US. We made a pact to visit as many states as we could in two weeks. Starting in California, we swept up north to Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, Utah, and Arizona.
While on the southern border of Utah heading in to Arizona, we stopped to fuel our vehicle on an Indian reservation and after filling up, my buddy noticed a group of locals sitting on their pick up truck drinking beer out of bottles in front of a saloon across the street. Not wanting to start anything on a reservation, I ignored it. But before I could say a word, my buddy Pete yelled out, "Good bye boys!" and waved toward them something fierce.
I quickly pulled out of the fuel station and back on the road wanting to get off the reservation as soon as possible. The men drinking in the back of their pick up raced into the front seat, slammed their doors, backed up with gravel being thrown about and headed our way at full speed. There were at least four more of them in the back, yelling, slamming their fists on top of the cap and throwing bottles our way as they tried to catch up.
I looked at Pete while trying to keep my eyes on the road as the sun went down behind us and I told him, "Man, were in a spot this time Pete! You sure went and messed things up. If they catch us, the law's not going to help us out here." Pete just laughed and stuck his hand out the window waving for them to hurry up.
As we neared the state border, the truck full of Indians slowed down and turned around. I kept high tailing it into Arizona and felt relieved when they were no longer in my rear view mirror. Pete and I headed up toward the Grand Canyon to see if we could secure a room at the local motel but were turned back when the road into the canyon was closed for the evening. We made our way back to the nearest town and got ourselves a room at the local Inn.
After filling our bellies in the morning with grub, we headed out to the Grand Canyon in order to catch our flight we'd reserved for a fly over from the canyon visiting airport. On the way up, a truck along side the highway was broke down with a flat tire and about six Indians were sitting around the truck in the sun drinking hard liqour looking depressed. Pete being hald Indian himself pulled his vehicle over and asked if they needed help. The driver told us that he only needed to change his flat tire but he didn't have a jack and the local gas station charges $50 bucks to borrow one if you're Indian. Pete turned off his vehile and went to the rear of the Pathfinder and began to pull his jack out of it.
As much as I wanted to help another person out, I kept looking at my watch noticing that we were going to be awful late in about two minutes. I yelled for Pete to wrap it up and told him we would miss our flight. Pete didn't miss a beat and kept at it doing all the work himself while the six Indians just watched him and sat there drinking. As soon as Pete tightened that last nut, the driver jumped up and into the truck saying thanks and moving off back toward town without even looking back. I couldn't believe it.
As Pete began to stuff his jack into the rear of the vehicle I laid into him about being late for the flight and losing all our money for a flat tire that wasn't even ours. Pete would not hear any of it and told me to get in the truck and to stop complaining. As much as I could however, I just kept at it telling him that the day was ruined.
As we crested the hill that would give us the view of the airport and the great canyon below, our flight swept over the road and our truck and moved out toward open land. I looked up through the windshield and could see the empty seats that were reserved for Pete and I imagining ourselves looking down upon us waving to our hearts content. Just as I was about to tell Pete, "I told you so," there was a funny sound that came from the plane that just passed over us and low and behold, the plane flipped over and crashed into the field not two miles from us. Pete and I just sat there amazed at what just occurred. I couldn't believe it. Pete looked over at me as the smoke from the plane could be seen past my side window and he told me, "You still think your day is ruined?"
We left the Grand Canyon and headed back toward town. Pete stopped at local Indian trading shop and wanted to go inside to find a few things that he might get for his mom. I went in with him but was still a bit shaken from what just happened. We could still hear the helecopters and the sirens moving past us toward the plane and its crew. No one survived that crash that day but we wouldn't know that for a few days. I walked around the trading post looking at really nothing that interested me until next to the door, I noticed the local paper.
The headline read, "Deadly Crash on Indian Reservation Claims Six Lives" I quickly picked up the paper and read the entire article. I had no doubt that these were the six men who had chased us last night and went to find Pete to show it to him. Pete took the paper from my hands and read the article as well, but it wasn't the fact that we were some what involved with the incident that made our hair on the back of our necks stand out, it was the fact that just a few hours ago, that same vehicle with the six Indians drinking in it on the side of our road that we stopped to change the flat tire...just so happened to be the same one that was in the front page of the paper.
We stopped to have Pete change the tire of a vehicle that no longer existed and the six Indians on the side of the road were already dead. They were definetly ghosts that held no grudges and Pete and I are mighty grateful to them for watching over us that day....
When I was in the Navy, stationed in the Bay area, me and 2 other sailors rented an apartment near Lake Merrit. It was a huge circa 1920's 2 storey house, with apartments on each floor, and one in the basement. Ours was a two bedroom apartment on the top floor, and we all worked diverse shifts, rarely together.
My bedroom was "created" by curtaining the dining room, off the entrance hall. One night, near midnight, I heard footsteps outside my room, and thought one of my roomies had come in from the evening shift.
A shadow of a man in a trenchcoat and 40s style hat, like Sam Spade, stopped at my curtain, seen in the shadow from the kitchen window. I asked if JB was in, and no answer.
I heard his footprints down the hall, across the living room, and into the back bedroom. I could hear the footsteps on the hardwood floor. Then I heard the closet door open and close. So I took my flashlight and went to the living room to turn on lights, and then walked into the back bedroom. Nobody there, but could see the footprints in the living room carpet. There was no other way out of that place, short of walking past my "room" again. The closet was empty.
This apparition appeared to me two other times in the 2 years I lived there. Never spoke, never did anything but pause at my curtain, and walk into the rear bedroom. I never felt threatened after the first "meeting".
My roomies had never experienced anything like it, nor had any of the other tenants. Just our upstairs apartment, evidently.
I went by the apartment last summer on a visit to Oakland, and got a creepy sensation when I walked by that house.