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of my son. After a few days I was looking through the pictures. and in one of the shots you can see a full apparition in the background. One of the legs was deformed and looks like a hoof. After seeing this I contacted Father Mike from St. Brigid Church. He went and did a blessing. He came back two more times after that. We moved out a few months later.
Submitted by Corina
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Categories: legs, church
I came back home for the Thanksgiving holiday during my college years. A class I was taking had me do an assignment over the break which involved writing down the layout of a cemetery as well as document any patterns by the way the tombs were laid out. I took my boyfriend with me to a cemetery. (I felt weird going alone.) It was just outside of south Hanford on a road headed towards the recycling center. There there's a small secluded cemetery with tombstones dating back to the late 1800s. Everything was fine while I was documenting what I needed to.
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After 45 minutes I was pretty much finished. Keep in mind, nobody else was around for miles, and traffic was basically non-existent. As we headed back to the car, my friend had already entered the car and started it as I was walking to the door. Before opening the door I heard someone behind me shout ''goodbye!'' I turned around and scanned the place but didn't see anybody. The voice sounded like a younger woman. As we drove off, I kept that moment to myself because I knew my boyfriend was not going to believe me. Sometimes I still wonder who it could have been. She seemed to enjoy our company that day.
Submitted by Roxy
Categories: writing, college, road, cemetery, man
The summer after my freshman year in college (I was nineteen) my parents asked me to live in the house that had belonged to my grandparents, both of whom died in the home. This house was on Courtner Street. They wanted someone on the premises to make sure the home was secure and to help them keep it organized as they began sorting through my grandparents' belongings. I said yes, thinking it would be a taste of freedom. I had been to the house many times, staying with my grandma, doing art projects, and cooking food. The home never felt ''bad'', even though some of my friends said that they ''saw an old man'' while visiting me. I just assumed it was an imprint of my grandpa who had lived in the house for fifty years, or something, because the home always felt ''homey. '' But from the moment I moved in, there was an almost oppressive feeling. I thought at first that I was just grieving the loss of my grandma, but then things began to happen.
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