Paranormal Investigator Magazine Issue I | Page 50

Paranormal Investigator Magazine
shook my confidence and I slowed my jog to a
slow walk and then to a stop. About ten yards
from him I stood facing him, as he blended into
the shadows, a dark spot in the dark. Something
solid in the thin night air.
I drew on my courage and said, “Hi. You’re out
late”.  And his eyes closed while looking at me.

many years ago, I had no feelings of dread or
even that anything was awry until I was struck
hard in the forehead, stopping me in my tracks
and dropping me on my behind in the middle
of the road. I sat there stunned and hurting top
and bottom.

I did not blink. He did. And he was gone as if
he’d never been there at all. At 19 I finally began
to question myself, my beliefs and my sanity.

Then I got my bearings, I let out a chuckle,
thinking that bat or night-bird had fared much
worse than I had, hitting an adult sized person,
and slowly stood scanning the road for the injured fly by.

I skirted that side of the road and continued jogging and then running, and then sprinting home
the last mile.

As I approached the bridge I stopped cold. Not
because of any feelings of dread or even the
fear of another bird or bat running into me.

This was the first solid memory of the Hatman
for me. I don’t remember how long after that,
but it wasn’t long, that I injured myself doing a
demonstration at the gymnastics class I helped
to teach, requiring surgery and which hurts me
to this day.

I literally could not move forward. I had hit what
I call to this day, “A Glass Wall”. I was shaken,
and shocked that I could not get on that bridge.
I pushed and even leaned against thin air, solid as a steel beam. I even left my feet leaning
on my toes and a shoulder against this unseen
barrier, terror building inside me, and after a few
minutes of effort. I decided on force, hitting the
solid steel air with my shoulder, hurting myself
but not the glass wall.

I failed to make a connection.
 My Second Remembered Sighting                                      
It was in the year 1981, and the week before
Saint Patrick’s Day.  I was jogging home to my
small town from that less small town and I had
an experience that has haunted me since. It’ not
something I was able to talk about to anyone
except in passing for two decades.
The night was getting on, about 11 P.M. and as
I usually did, I jogged the three miles from town
to the small village of Birmingham, Pa. home,
at the time of about 50 persons, and now of 46.
It was cold and still, the only breeze made by the
air rushing into my young man’s face as I jogged
at a young man’s pace, the creek nearby, and
the railroad quiet this time of night.  Crickets and
tree frogs were on break this time of year as I
rolled along, puffing a bit.  My small town ideas
and experience allowing me to appreciate the
smells and sounds of night- time on old Rt. 453,
the road I still jogged on habitually.
Coming up on the bridge near “the cut”, where
the road had been blasted through the hills

I sat beside the road, and in all my young
manliness sobbed like a man broken and broken-hearted.
I’ve experienced loss, and I’ve experienced
grief, but not since this experience has it been
so encompassing. Almost as if I was taking on
the grief and heartbreak of everyone I knew if
only for that half hour. Sobs and tears left me
shaking and weak.
I wished desperately I knew why my heart was
wrenching and why I was so afraid.
When I finally regained control of my emotions
and grief, I stood looking across the bridge, and
standing on the other side was a tall, slim figure.
He wore a flat brimmed hat and long coat blowing in a breeze I didn’t feel on my side of the
bridge. For just a few seconds I was horrified,
and then thought perhaps he was someone
who lived nearby. That thought passed quickly
when I saw his doe’s eyes, glowing in the scant

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