[nfbwatlk] Ghost stories of the Blind

[Philip Blackmer]

Okay first off I must admit that I have a streange and wide range of things
that just catch my interest.  Lately it is ghost stories.  I just found two
stories told by blind people and I thought how interesting a blind
perspective might be on this subject.  I know this email is a bit long and I
hope you forgive me my breach of email etiquette.  Enjoy, and be forewarned
if such stories creep you out you may want to just move on.


The Rehab Ghost 
By: bnash at kc.rr.com 

I have been a native of Kansas City for the last forty years, consequently, 
I have a great number of stories to share with you. I have persoanally 
witnessed a good deal of paranormal activities both in private homes and in 
public places. 
I have been blind since birth as the result of a medical accident. However, 
my other senses are quite acute so not much gets by me. As a youth, I was 
always curious to know how a ghost would relate to a blind person, and have 
gotten a number of answers over the last twenty years. I over the next few 
weeks will share a number of my adventures with you, but the following 
account is the best of the bunch. 
I am a massage therapist by profession, but about two years ago, I took a 
second job. My position was rehab assistant at a rehab facility for the 
blind here in midtown. The residents hall had at one time been the home for 
medical students while they attended studies at a nearby medical facility. 
The residents hall is made of terra cotta brick. It is six stories tall and 
square in shape. There are four apartments on each floor. As you enter the 
building, the first two apartments are directly across from each other. Next

to the apartment on the right is a door that opens onto the fire stairs. 
At the end of this tower like structure, is the other two apartment with 
another fire exit directly at the end of the building. Thus, my apartment 
was nestled right next to this exit There was an elevator in mid hallway. It

ran from the basement to the sixth floor. 
I didn't see a lot of my clients until the morning hours, unless of course 
there was an emergency. My night consisted of ruining my kidneys with ten or

fifteen cups of coffee. Desecrating my lungs with fine tobacco, doing office

work, along with other odd jobs and catching a forbidden nap on the couch. 
I had been working there for a couple of weeks when I began to notice odd 
occurrences. The other apartments  in this building were occupied by staff 
members of this company. They came and went all through the evening, but it 
got pretty quiet around two in the morning. 
One evening, I was sitting in the living room, transcribing some material 
for a student. It was around two thirty A.M. I heard the whine and clank of 
the elevator as it made its laborious way from an upper floor to the ground 
floor. The door opened and shut without any one exiting the car. 
 This happened several times a night. There  were times when I would go out 
to have a smoke and actually hear the elevator button be punched. The car 
would arrive and no one would enter or exit. Needless to say, my smoking 
increased on nights that this happened. 
Many times I would nap on the couch and would go in to a strange state. My 
hearing would be heightened immensely. I would hear the mumble of many 
voices. The words were unintelligible. I felt a sense of unease and the 
building seemed to drain my energy. 
Some times the computer which is modified with speech compatible software, 
for the blind, would start to talk even though the room was empty. I knew 
that there were spirits in the building and tried to communicate with them 
to no avale until one night. 
Often when on the couch in a state of paralysis, I would feel the building 
literally shake as in the aftermath of an explosion. The elevator would come

to demonic life running its idiot course from floor to floor. I would hear a

door open on an upper floor and hear and feel the vibration of running foot 
steps. They would run the length of the building, entering the fire stairs 
at the front of the building on roughly the fourth floor. They would run 
down the stairs to my floor, crashing open the door, running the length of 
the building and back on to the other set of fire stairs near my apartment. 
They would run back upstairs to the fourth or fifth floor, go through the 
stairs, run about half way down the hall, and then just stop. You wouldn't 
hear an apartment door open or close. 
This went on for a few weeks and I was greatly intreagued by these 
happenings. This usually occurred around three to four in the morning. It 
seemed to occur on evenings when it was overcast or quite humid. 
One evening, I transcribed a cook book for a client and around three in the 
morning I went out for coffee and a smoke. I went out the fire door by my 
apartment and down the stairs where there is a landing. I opened the door 
that leads out side and seated my self on a radiator adjacent to the door. 
It was quiet, the hum of the florescent light seemed loud in the stair well.

The far off sounds of a train and other industrial sounds, along with an 
occasional car passing were all rather common place but some how reassuring.

Suddenly I felt the vibration of running foot steps far above me. I thought 
with a sense of mingled dread and expectation, now, I finally get a chance 
to meet this deranged nocturnal individual. I wasn't to be disapointed. It 
came racing down the stairs and must have been thrown off by my unexpected 
presence. 
Instead of going through the fire door and then down the hall to the other 
end of the building, it ran down the stairs and right past me. Its momentum 
carried it about six feet out the door. A  freezing blast of air was in its 
wake. I sat rivoted to the radiator wondering if I was going to have to do 
hand to hand combat. 
 Briefly, I entertained the idea of kicking the door shut, but there was a 
heart felt feeling, that this could be a very bad idea. It pivoted and came 
dog trotting back in to the building. As it passed me by only inches, to 
spare, I felt that frigid blast of air again. At the top of the stairs, it 
turned and regarded, with an almost palpable molevolence, radiating from it.

I could hear no breathing. 
I said in my best Eastwood immitation, Hi, my name is Brian, I work with the

visually impaired people in the building, what's your name. There was a 
pause of about three seconds, then his erie reply, floated across the 
distance between us. My name is Alan.  What apartment do do you live in, 
said I. 
I just stay with some people in the building, was the vague reply. There was

 about the whole area, such an out pouring of negative and confused energy 
that I found it quite disorienting. It almost didn't seem real. I was 
getting ready to fire off another berauge of questions but it turned away 
and mounted the stairs in that relentless ground covering dog trot. 
Around the fourth or fifth floor it entered the main part of the building. I

waited to hear an apartment door open or close. Silence reigned supreme. 
I made my way in an almost trance like state back to my apartment. I am 
usually able to keep feelings for the need of my vision at bay, but I would 
have given damned near any thing to know what I confronted that night. One 
thing I am sure of, is that it wasn't from this world. Furthermore, it 
didn't dig having its routine jacked with. 

I have talked with many people in the building who have heard the elevators 
running, with no passengers aboard. They have also heard the running foot 
steps and slamming doors. One of my co workers was a little woman from 
Honduras, she says the building is purely evil and that many people have 
died there. 
As yet, I haven't researched this location. I will up date this story when I

do. If there are any brave soles out there who want to investigate this 
building with me, I can be contacted at my e-mail address. I love your web 
site and know that it provides comfort and reassurance to a lot of people 
who need their experiences clarifyed and or validated. Thanks for your time.




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The Jim River Adventure 
By: bnash at kc.rr.com 

I sent you a story a few days ago, and as the snow falls here in Kansas 
City, I am taking the opportunity to send you another one. My name is Brian 
and I have been blind since birth. I have had a number of paranormal 
experiences of which this is one of the best. 
My mother's family are natives of South Dakota.   We bought the dairy farm 
from my grandma, after my grandfather's death in the late nineteen sixties. 
For many years we rented the farm out to a family who were in the dairy 
business, and we share cropped the land on which was raised corn, alfalfa, 
along with other types of grain an hay. The wife of the dairy farmer died a 
few years ago. From then on the dairy operation was closed down and we 
continued to share crop the land to other farmers. 
My mom and dad would go up to the farm in the summer and spent many a happy 
year there. The farm is beautiful with a lot of rolling hills that gradually

slope down to the James river which runs through the border of our property.

I know my way around certain areas of the farm, but it is easy to get lost 
since it spans four hundred acres of ground. In nineteen ninety two, we 
decided to spend some time with my parents on the farm. My two sisters, 
their boy friends and my self, packed our bags and hit the road. 
For the first couple of days we visited with the folks a lot. We ate grand 
meals of fried chicken and fresh produce. We took long walks on the property

and gravel roads around the farm. In the evenings we would sit on a large 
hill named by my grandfather years ago. He called it Hine's peak after one 
of his favorite work horses who liked to stand up there after working in the

fields all day. A wonderfully cool breeze was always present on the 
magnificent hill. I was told the view was incredible. You could see the 
lights from Mitchell which was some fifteen miles away. There was also a 
great view of the river. 
 After a couple of days of R and R, I decided it was high time to do some 
fishing in the James river. We called it the big Jim. We packed up our 
fishing gear and arrived at the Jim around six in the evening. The next 
couple of hours were spent catching catfish, white bass  and carp. I was 
busy helping my sisters bait hooks and casting their lines into prime spots.

As darkness fell on the river, several frogs began a happy summer serinade. 
A couple of big owls started talking to each other, in the trees along the 
river bank. I casted my line in close to the bank , knowing the juicy night 
crawler would probably attract a catfish. 
Suddenly, my rod was almost torn from my hand, and I set the hook with 
lightning speed.  The drag began to whine as the fish engaged in a fight for

his life. 
In a few minutes I had him close to the bank. I could tell from the 
splashing that he would weigh in at fifteen or twenty pounds. My sister's 
boy friend raced to the lip of the riverbank and grabbed the line 
enthusiastically. This proved to be a winning situation for the fish. It ran

toward deep water and snapped the line like a twig, as the use of the drag 
was ineffective. Any of you fisherman out there, know the sting of defeat 
when such a thing happens. 
Not long afterwards, a humming cloud of mosquitoes ascended on us. We packed

up our gear and grabbed a healthy stringer of fish from the river and headed

home. After cleaning and freezing the fish, we retired to the house for some

dessert. 
Earlier that day,we had gone to what we call the colony. Years ago, a great 
number of people immigrated from Russia to our country. Many of them settled

in south Dakota and set up colonies of hundreds of people, living together 
and working for the common good of the colony. They own thousands of acres 
near our farm and are wondrful farmers. The produce they grow is incredible.

They grow the best sweet corn in the world. 
They have in the middle of their compound a little store where the locals 
can buy whatever is in season at the time. One of the purchases of the day 
was an apple pie of such monumental porportions it was mind boggling. This 
pie must have weighed a good ten pounds. We sat around the table chattering 
about the fun time at the river and me razzing Mike about the catfish we 
lost. Mom was busy dishing up apple pie and ice cream. We were served and 
all fell quiet as we began to eat. 
The pie fell sadly short of my expectations. The crust was heavy and doughy.

The apples and filling were tart and who ever made the pie went light on the

sugar. It hit your stomach with the weight of a wrecking ball striking a 
building for demolition. None of us were impressed and I think we were all 
secretly glad when the ordeal was finished. 
Not long after, we made our respective beds and fell in to them happy and 
exhausted. I had a hard time falling to sleep, the pie was riding me like a 
cowboy on a bucking horse. My mind was filled with thoughts of the catfish I

had lost some hours earlier. Soon I drifted in to restless sleep. 
Then the dream began. I was on the river bank and replayed the experience of

catching the mighty catfish yet again. But this time when the line broke, it

wrapped around my neck in a lethal fashion and started to strangle me. I 
couldn't move. My arms weighed a ton and I knew that death was near. I 
fought my way back to consciousness and realized that I couldn't swallow. I 
leaped to my feet my heart racing like a trip hammer. I struggled to the 
kitchen, and desperately poured a glass of water. As I drank it, life came 
flooding back to me.. 
Contemplations of going back to bed were banished from my thoughts as the 
spector of the apple pie loomed ominously on my mental horizon. I grabbed a 
pack of smokes from the side bar and padded quietly out side, easing the 
screen door shut behind me. The night was glorious. It was still quite warm,

probably in the upper eighties which is rather unusual being so far up 
north. 
My thoughts turned inexorably to the fish I had lost earlier and I knew I 
must redeem my self. 
I went to the house dressing quickly and grabbing my favorite pair of boots.

I then, went to the garage and got my favorite fishing pole and a bucket of 
night crawlers. A couple of cold beers completed my list of essentials. I 
walked quietly down the driveway and soon gingerly picked my way across a 
cattle guard. The wind softly sighed in the tall grass bordering the road. 
The far off call of an owl was followed by the yipping of a pack of coyotes.

I smiled in satisfaction, knowing that when the animals are so active that 
the fish would be biting well. 
I walked on the left side of the road, tapping the ground lightly with my 
fishing rod every ten or fifteen feet, so as to find the trail leading down 
to the river. After about a quarter mile, I was rewarded when I tapped a 
wide smooth spot. 
I turned left atnd started striding confidently down the trail. My 
confidence evaporated when I heard the soft but constant sounds of grazing 
cattle. It was a large herd of holstein cattle and the herd was made 
complete by a large and aggresive bull. Undaunted I continued down the 
trail, walking so quietly I could hardly hear my own foot steps. Soon I was 
among the cattle. They continued to graze as if I weren't there. I prayed I 
wouldn't run into one of them. I fought off catastrophic thoughts of having 
to run from them. If I wasn't careful, I would fall in the river as the 
river bank is at the end of the trail. 
Soon I was passed the cattle and I slowed with caution. Soon the fruits of 
my labor were rewarded, as I came to the end of the trail. The edge of the 
river bank was over grown with weeds just a little taller but denser than 
the grass. 
I quickly baited my hook and cast my line about ten feet out from the shore.

Catfish come in to the shallow water to feed at night. 
I opened a beer and was congratulating my self on the way things were going,

thus far. As I sat quiet, I felt the air temperature begin to drop. Then I 
heard the rumble of not so far off thunder. My attention snapped back to my 
fishing as something tried to tear the pole from my hand. It was so big it 
almost pulled me from the edge, as I sat with my feet dangling over the lip 
of the bank. 
I fought the fish with all the skill of thirty years of experience. Soon I 
had it close to the bank, I scrambled down the treacherous bank and stood at

the edge of the river. I brought the fish closer, I grabbed it through the 
gills. In supreme disgust, I realized the fish was the biggest carp I had 
ever caught. It was over three feet long, it weighed about twenty pounds. I 
put it on a stringer and after securing it to a log, returned to my former 
spot and rebaited. my hook. 
A few fat cold rain drops began to fall. I soon had another bite and was 
fighting another fish as it began to rain harder. This time when I went over

the bank to land the fish, I could feel the river rising, the current was 
picking up.  I landed a fifteen pound catfish and added him to his companion

on the stringer. 

I almost fell in the river as I tried to make my way up the bank. I was 
soaked with water and my teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. But fishing 
was so good I couldn't bear  to leave. I recast my line and waited in 
huddled misery as the rain fell in buckets. A tremendous clap of thunder 
shook the ground and the smell of ozone filled the air. There was a mighty 
crash followed by a tremendous splash, about fifty feet to my left. I knew 
that lightning had struck one of the big cottonwoods on the bank. 
 Lightning is nothing to play games with. I have been struck  but that is 
another story. I laid my fishing pole on the ground as not to attract any 
unwanted electrical activity. I snatched it back as something tried to drag 
it toward the river with a vengence. I landed another carp about three 
minutes later. It weighed about ten pounds. 
The rain started to slack off. As it subsided, a swarm of deer flies came 
out and I thought this strange as it was probably four or five in the 
morning. I eased carefully down the bank and grabbed the stringer of fish, 
in preparation to leave. I tied the stringer of fish to my belt and pulled 
it behind me as it was to heavy to carry along with all my other equipment. 
The thick rich dirt of the river bottoms of the Dakota's become like gumbo 
after the rain had subsided. Soon the return trail played out, I realized to

my horror I was lost. I walked on hoping for a miracle. I heard a rooster 
crow in the distance and knew morning was fast approaching. I wanted to make

it home on my own steam so to speak. If the family got up and found me 
absent they would 
come looking for me which would be humiliating. 
Soon I began to trek through thick grass, and tree limbs began to claw at 
me. I slowed and reached out in front of me to find a barbed wire fence. I 
followed it for about a half a mile. Now I was becoming really disoriented 
and the fish I was pulling behind me seemed to weigh a ton. MY ego was 
suffering from the rancor of being lost on my own farm. 
I came to a hedge row made up of small but wickedly thorny trees. I ran into

one and scratched my face and forehead. I stood ,shoulders slumped forward, 
a perfect study of dejection. 
Then I heard a voice. It came on the breeze clear as a bell. "Brian",  was 
the only word that was uttered. It came from a location approximately a 
hundred feet off to my left. 
My grandpa died when I was only five and my memories of him have dimmed with

time. However, I know it was him that spoke to me. I continued on in the 
direction the voice had come from and soon to my amazement was standing on 
the trail leading back to the road. Luckily, the cattle had gone to graze 
else where. The rest of my homeward journey was blessedly uneventful. I 
walked in to the farm yard around seven thirty by my braille pocket watch. 
By this time I was carrying the stringer of fish triumphantly. I walked to 
the back door. I wrapped smartly on it with a wet and muddy hand. My mom 
soon opened the door. She regarded me in stunned silence. 
Then she said that she had gotten up a few minutes before not to find me on 
the couch. Knowing me all to well, she figured that I had gone to the river 
to fish. I dropped the fish on the grass made soft by the rain. I was so 
muddy and bedraggled I left my clothes outside and came in clad only in my 
underwear. Then to my embarrassment pictures were being taken of me. 
Imagine this, my family is so into photography, even I like to take pictures

of people and places. I am probably the only blind photographer if the 
world. I told my story to the family, seated at the table, drinking one cup 
of hot coffee after another. 
I omitted the time when I heard grandpa calling my name, I didn't think they

would believe me. But when I look down through the years at this momentous 
night, it is time my dear grandpa is given full credit for getting me home 
that morning. 
Since this event, my dear mom has passed to the other side and we don't get 
up to the farm much any more. I have a picture of the fish I caught, and 
will send it along if I can find it. When ever I hear distant thunder, it 
always puts me in mind of a mystical night when my grandpa came back from 
another land to get me home safely. 
Thanks for your time and keep up the great work.