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First, let me say that I am a 29 year-old-male from Kentucky and a skeptic
when it comes to ghosts. I believe that there must be a logical
explanation for everything, though it may be a logic that we do not
currently understand. If asked about U.F.O.s, I would have to say that
though again skeptical, I feel the possibility is far greater than that of
spirits of the dead walking among us. The reason I mention this, is that
this story falls somewhere between U.F.O.s and ghosts. I want to assure
you that, as God is my witness, this is a true story. It has recently been
on my mind and really scares me yet today.
My story begins late one evening in mid-summer about 15 years ago. At that
time, I had a very strange habit: I was absolutely obsessed with throwing
rocks. I would spend hours engaging in my hobby, particularly at spot
about 60 yards up the hill behind my house where there were many rocks.
Because the summer days were getting very hot, I adopted the habit of
waiting until evening to pursue my odd hobby. It was a ritual that I had
been repeating every night for about a month. At 14 years of age, I
was a rough and fearless boy and all the ghost stories in the world would
not have kept me from my love of stone-throwing. So, on this particular
night, I was out upon the hill, sitting in my usual spot, and happily
throwing away. I had been doing this for about an hour and it was just
beginning to get dark when I heard the front door to my house open. I knew that my father was coming out to tell me it was getting dark and to
come on in so he could go to sleep without worrying about me. Predictably,
he came around the house and stopped at the bottom of the hill, yelling:
"Donald! Eric! Come on in - it's getting dark and I want to go to bed."
Eric is my nephew who was about nine years old at the time. I
continued to sit, mumbling a low, "Huh? Ok." My father then walked a bit
closer, saying: "Donald! Eric? You boys get in here now!" I then stood up
and replied, "Eric is not up here. He is in his room. I am the only one up
here.”
My father then continued up the hill, asking, "Well, who were those people
you were talking to?"
I responded: "No one. I am here alone." To this, a frightened look
crossed my father’s face.
"Donald, honey, are you sure Matt and Eric are not up here?" he asked.
(Matt was a friend of Eric’s.)
"No,” I replied, "Matt is not even here tonight."
He then said that there had been someone behind me and hadn’t I seen them?
When I said no, we began to look around the
yard. After searching the property very thoroughly, we went inside the
house to confirm that every family member was where they were supposed to
be. They were.
We
then woke up my brother, who got his pistol and went up the road to
see that there were no strangers in the area and make another search
of the yard.
All the while, my
poor father was strangely quiet and looked so frightened. I had
never seen him this way before. It was not until the next morning that
he had recovered enough to tell us the whole story.
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My father said that
when he walked around the house he saw two "little people” standing
behind me. Dressed all in white, he described them as looking
like "a damn doctor or something." 
