Happy Veterans Day. For this very important holiday, here are some more short stories I have accumulated for your reading pleasure. Let’s dive deep into the vast scribblings of my personal journals while I try to explain the spirits stories as best as I can.
The Coffer Woods Runner
For many who have lived in Burke, Virginia, Coffer Woods is a neighborhood with a road that many use as a cut-through from one thoroughfare to another. It is a way to bypass a troublesome intersection that is constantly backed up. I have been driving on Coffer Woods Road for as long as I have had my license and I will tell you that the road has a way of playing tricks on your eyes. Every single time I drive through a specific bend in the road my heart jumps in panic. Not because it is treacherous, but because there is an imprint of an event that lingers there. There is a woman about 5’7″ – 5’9″, aged 18 to 26 years old, honey brown hair up in a ponytail, wearing loose fitted running shorts and a cotton t-shirt with a school name printed across it. The routine is always the same, I see her as she turns to notice my vehicle approaching, she raises a hand as if to wave, and then she darts across the street in front of me. By the angle of the road, you are not sure if she is still running along the side, but at the last-minute you realize she has entered the road and you are too late to stop. I now take this particular turn slower in anticipation, the feeling passes with no panic or raised instinctual alarms if I keep it slow. It is only if I am going a particularly increased speed that I feel her. I am not sure if what I experience has to do with the passing of the runner, or the grief and guilt of the driver replaying the mistake they made so many years ago. Either way, it has left quite an impression on that section of road.
The Basement Dweller
My current residence has a spirit that hangs out in the basement (clichéd, right?). It is a super chill spirit and has never put forth any negativity towards me. The first time I stepped into the house he didn’t show himself to me, though I knew something was there. The second time I came over to the house he took notice, and made sure I knew he was there. The spirit made himself look large and intimidating, he made sure I knew this was his property and that I need to respect it. I let him have his space, giving him the benefit of the doubt, knowing that from my experiences he was most likely a gentle entity. He is a bit of a hermit and prefers his solitude above almost everything else.
I soon learned that he is from the mid to late 1800’s, he wears dark pants that look as though they were once indigo blue, and a cotton long-sleeved shirt that looked like it was once a white or ivory color. His hair is a washed-out grey-brown, and his dark eyes had the expression of being lost. He had once traveled the land near the river in order to get away from the dangers that followed him there. He tells me, “I won’t go back.” When he made it to what is now our property he had found himself quite lost with no other choice but to make camp for the night. I believe he had some sort of injury to one of his legs and he needed to find a safe place to hide. Managing to create a temporary lean-to, he foraged for food, and made himself as comfortable as he could. Days turned into weeks and his leg started to heal, he began to feel safe and even found happiness in his solitude. The weather turned cold and he knew he had to move on, he also had elderly parents to tend to while he still had time. This place had healed him in more ways than the wounded leg, in his solitude he had found himself again. I have a feeling he was in some sort of war or battle, and it left him with a form of PTSD that he couldn’t quite shake. The land had brought him home again, brought him back to himself, and gave him the fight he had lost within himself.
He went home and tended to his family, where he never married, and he never had children. Once the last member of his family was placed in their proper plots and his responsibility was through, he came back to his sanctuary where he found the remnants of his lean-to still visible. He purchased the land officially and built something more permanent to live in. He then stayed there in solitude until he passed away quietly of old age.
He still won’t tell me his name, or even speak to me, but he stares at me with those lost eyes. He is an observer and tends to express himself with subtle feelings that can only be sensed when he is in the room. He approves of us being in the house and voices it by leaving us alone. On occasion while my fiancé and I maintain the house, he will fill a room with the overwhelming sense of pride, whether we are repairing or cleaning, either satisfy him greatly.
The only other reason he comes out of the basement is when he worries. He comes out to warn me of large storms approaching and will guard my son when he feels something particularly nasty coming our way. My cat will stay in the basement for days just to spend time with him, or lay in the upstairs hallway and help the spirit when guarding my sons bedroom.
Between the land and the spirit, this place has a way of healing people who stay here. More specifically, people who have suffered from a form of trauma find our land and home to be rejuvenating. I believe that it is in direct relation to the combined effort of the spirit and the healing nature of the land that these factors are possible.
I hope you all have a wonderful holiday weekend.
Update: My services as a psychic are available to anyone who wishes. My rates are negotiable. Drop me an email if you are interested. ( firstname.lastname@example.org )
Go with light and love.