Damien
Ephemeral Spectre
- Joined
- Jan 10, 2021
- Messages
- 261
Hi the following is copied from a previous "It happened to me" posted in a 2017 Fortean times. I know the person who it happened to, and can confirm and vouch for his sincerity, I have have been interested if anyone else might know of any similar experiences to this? or offer any other avenues of research, thanks.
"Meeting Nicola"
I have kept an irregular journal and have jotted down some of the more notable incidents and at quiet times it pleases me to flick through the now yellowing pages and reminisce.
One experience bothers me so much that not one day goes past without my thinking about it.
The following is an almost verbatim copy of my journal entry, itself a copy of the original notes I jotted down immediately after the event but which have since been lost: “At approximately 8:30am [on 21 June 1983] I left ––Dudley Road to walk along the River Thames to Walton Bridge and the ‘Cowey Sale’.
I was hoping to see my friend Joe–––, who was selling ice cream for the summer. When I arrived at approximately 9am his van was nowhere to be seen.
I decided to wait and while I did so I walked along the bank of the river, away from the bridge and up to where there was a sloping concrete launch for boats.
I then turned and looked for my friend’s van which I expected/ hoped to be parked in the car park and the usual spot.
He had still to arrive. The day was cloudy and brisk and I decided that the weather had put him off coming down to his pitch.
I started to wander back along the bank and home. Up to this point, apart from the odd car which had sped past, I had seen no other person along what is usually a busy stretch of the river.
The only people I could see were a couple of fishermen who had set up right next to the bridge.
After walking about 50 yards from the concrete launch, I heard a loud ‘splash’ coming from behind me on the left and the river.
Thinking it might be a large fish, I turned and went to investigate.
A fisherman myself (and a lifelong visitor along these banks), I knew the sound was coming from a small, semi-circular area of the bank that had been worn away and allowed fishermen to wade out into the water quietly without having to step down into the river from the bank.
To my shock – I had only passed the spot moments before – standing on the shingle was a girl, probably a couple of years younger than me (18/19), bending down and looking out at a dog that was swimming in the water.
I turned away and started walk back home again. After just a few strides I decided to go back and have a chat… from what I had seen she seemed quite attractive! I opened with the line: ‘Hi, are you an art student on leave too?’ ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m just walking my Nan’s dog.’
“The girl had jet-black hair, very white, faultless skin and plump, full red lips. Her eyes were stunning and were a true emerald green, sparkling in the murky light and piercing.
Of the dog that was in the water I could only see its head. It was large, menacing and black.
We continued chatting by the bank and she revealed that her name was Nicola and that she lived in Streatham.
I then suggested that if she had nothing on we should go for a walk. She agreed and I thought I was ‘in’.
“We crossed over the road and headed to Broadwater Lake, a great fishing spot for tench and a lake that was supposed to have been created by Capability Brown.
The chat was light and jovial and we brushed shoulders as we walked. ‘Nicola’ seemed to be very relaxed.
It was as we approached the end of the rough, rutted lane which led to the lake that I suddenly became very uneasy in her company.
She was gorgeous, I thought, and must have been chatted-up so many times before; surely she must have been aware of the dangers of going off with strangers… and yet here she was, alone, with a stranger (me) in a dark (even though it was day), secluded spot.
The hairs all over my body stood on end as if I’d touched a live wire and I stopped.
I then – and I really don’t know why – asked the first thing that came into my head: ‘Do you know why the 23rd is called mid-summer although today is the Solstice?’ “It was a pathetic question.
It had come from nowhere and just sounded stupid, but the affect it had on ‘Nicola’ was bizarre.
She stopped in her tracks and her face became contorted and angry. Her eyes narrowed to slits and her nostrils flared. ‘Why are you asking me this?’ she demanded.
‘Why do you think I would know that? Do you think I know?’ “I was shocked, stunned and very disturbed.
I really did think I was with an escaped mental patient.
I was very scared even though I was 12 stone and heavily muscled and she was slim and of average height.
There was an awkward silence that seemed to last ages as we stepped two or three paces forward.
Suddenly she turned round and said: ‘Oh, hi, you’re here?’ “I turned and looked over my left shoulder and stumbled as I looked at something which wasn’t possible.
Immediately behind us, no more than a yard, was a giant of a man standing astride a hefty black and chrome motorbike.
He was dressed in all black leathers and wore a black helmet with a darkened visor.
I couldn’t see his face but could just make out the white of his eyes.
I was terrified.
I hadn’t heard the bike.
Even if he had pushed it along the 150 yards of the pot-holed dirt track we were on I would have heard something.
I thought it might be her boyfriend or an over-protective brother.
‘Frank,’ said Nicola. ‘Do you just want to go on, I won’t be a minute.’ “Relieved, I gladly walked to the end of the lane, some 20 yards, where it turned to the right and behind a big oak.
I glanced back only once and then waited behind the tree for a second. Curious to get another look at the bike and biker, I popped my head around the corner.
There was no one there.
“Refusing to accept anything supernatural, I strained my eyes and ears and sprinted (I am an 11 second 100 metre runner) to the end of the lane and the 100 yard climb up a hill where the lane joins the main road.
Nothing and nobody was to be seen… and then I realised: Where was the dog? It hadn’t followed us on our romantic walk.
We had left it in the water. I ran to the spot on the bank.
Nothing.” The account goes on to say how I ran back home and then to my cousin’s house, and how I described everything that had happened.
It also states how for many years afterwards – at the same time and place – I visited the site… with nothing unusual occurring. The incident was in all probability insignificant; no one was harmed and there was no real consequence, but it was real.
I actually touched Nicola (albeit with my shoulder).
I felt that she was no phantasm, no product of an overactive imagination, but I don’t know what she was… and it frustrates me so.
I came so close, so close to finding out about something which we are, it appears, not allowed to know. I consider the facts and memories every day and I will go to my grave without ever knowing the answer… but the fact that I came so close bothers me more than you can know.
Hopefully this letter will help expunge my feeling of having guessed the six numbers and then lost the ticket.
Francesco S
"Meeting Nicola"
I have kept an irregular journal and have jotted down some of the more notable incidents and at quiet times it pleases me to flick through the now yellowing pages and reminisce.
One experience bothers me so much that not one day goes past without my thinking about it.
The following is an almost verbatim copy of my journal entry, itself a copy of the original notes I jotted down immediately after the event but which have since been lost: “At approximately 8:30am [on 21 June 1983] I left ––Dudley Road to walk along the River Thames to Walton Bridge and the ‘Cowey Sale’.
I was hoping to see my friend Joe–––, who was selling ice cream for the summer. When I arrived at approximately 9am his van was nowhere to be seen.
I decided to wait and while I did so I walked along the bank of the river, away from the bridge and up to where there was a sloping concrete launch for boats.
I then turned and looked for my friend’s van which I expected/ hoped to be parked in the car park and the usual spot.
He had still to arrive. The day was cloudy and brisk and I decided that the weather had put him off coming down to his pitch.
I started to wander back along the bank and home. Up to this point, apart from the odd car which had sped past, I had seen no other person along what is usually a busy stretch of the river.
The only people I could see were a couple of fishermen who had set up right next to the bridge.
After walking about 50 yards from the concrete launch, I heard a loud ‘splash’ coming from behind me on the left and the river.
Thinking it might be a large fish, I turned and went to investigate.
A fisherman myself (and a lifelong visitor along these banks), I knew the sound was coming from a small, semi-circular area of the bank that had been worn away and allowed fishermen to wade out into the water quietly without having to step down into the river from the bank.
To my shock – I had only passed the spot moments before – standing on the shingle was a girl, probably a couple of years younger than me (18/19), bending down and looking out at a dog that was swimming in the water.
I turned away and started walk back home again. After just a few strides I decided to go back and have a chat… from what I had seen she seemed quite attractive! I opened with the line: ‘Hi, are you an art student on leave too?’ ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m just walking my Nan’s dog.’
“The girl had jet-black hair, very white, faultless skin and plump, full red lips. Her eyes were stunning and were a true emerald green, sparkling in the murky light and piercing.
Of the dog that was in the water I could only see its head. It was large, menacing and black.
We continued chatting by the bank and she revealed that her name was Nicola and that she lived in Streatham.
I then suggested that if she had nothing on we should go for a walk. She agreed and I thought I was ‘in’.
“We crossed over the road and headed to Broadwater Lake, a great fishing spot for tench and a lake that was supposed to have been created by Capability Brown.
The chat was light and jovial and we brushed shoulders as we walked. ‘Nicola’ seemed to be very relaxed.
It was as we approached the end of the rough, rutted lane which led to the lake that I suddenly became very uneasy in her company.
She was gorgeous, I thought, and must have been chatted-up so many times before; surely she must have been aware of the dangers of going off with strangers… and yet here she was, alone, with a stranger (me) in a dark (even though it was day), secluded spot.
The hairs all over my body stood on end as if I’d touched a live wire and I stopped.
I then – and I really don’t know why – asked the first thing that came into my head: ‘Do you know why the 23rd is called mid-summer although today is the Solstice?’ “It was a pathetic question.
It had come from nowhere and just sounded stupid, but the affect it had on ‘Nicola’ was bizarre.
She stopped in her tracks and her face became contorted and angry. Her eyes narrowed to slits and her nostrils flared. ‘Why are you asking me this?’ she demanded.
‘Why do you think I would know that? Do you think I know?’ “I was shocked, stunned and very disturbed.
I really did think I was with an escaped mental patient.
I was very scared even though I was 12 stone and heavily muscled and she was slim and of average height.
There was an awkward silence that seemed to last ages as we stepped two or three paces forward.
Suddenly she turned round and said: ‘Oh, hi, you’re here?’ “I turned and looked over my left shoulder and stumbled as I looked at something which wasn’t possible.
Immediately behind us, no more than a yard, was a giant of a man standing astride a hefty black and chrome motorbike.
He was dressed in all black leathers and wore a black helmet with a darkened visor.
I couldn’t see his face but could just make out the white of his eyes.
I was terrified.
I hadn’t heard the bike.
Even if he had pushed it along the 150 yards of the pot-holed dirt track we were on I would have heard something.
I thought it might be her boyfriend or an over-protective brother.
‘Frank,’ said Nicola. ‘Do you just want to go on, I won’t be a minute.’ “Relieved, I gladly walked to the end of the lane, some 20 yards, where it turned to the right and behind a big oak.
I glanced back only once and then waited behind the tree for a second. Curious to get another look at the bike and biker, I popped my head around the corner.
There was no one there.
“Refusing to accept anything supernatural, I strained my eyes and ears and sprinted (I am an 11 second 100 metre runner) to the end of the lane and the 100 yard climb up a hill where the lane joins the main road.
Nothing and nobody was to be seen… and then I realised: Where was the dog? It hadn’t followed us on our romantic walk.
We had left it in the water. I ran to the spot on the bank.
Nothing.” The account goes on to say how I ran back home and then to my cousin’s house, and how I described everything that had happened.
It also states how for many years afterwards – at the same time and place – I visited the site… with nothing unusual occurring. The incident was in all probability insignificant; no one was harmed and there was no real consequence, but it was real.
I actually touched Nicola (albeit with my shoulder).
I felt that she was no phantasm, no product of an overactive imagination, but I don’t know what she was… and it frustrates me so.
I came so close, so close to finding out about something which we are, it appears, not allowed to know. I consider the facts and memories every day and I will go to my grave without ever knowing the answer… but the fact that I came so close bothers me more than you can know.
Hopefully this letter will help expunge my feeling of having guessed the six numbers and then lost the ticket.
Francesco S
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