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The
tumor was large, about the size of a chicken egg. In the spring of
1971, a surgeon removed the cancerous mass from 11-year-old Rob
Langevoort’s brain and Rob spent months undergoing radiation therapy.
So,
when Rob started seeing things that didn’t belong in his home, he
didn’t know if they were real or imaginary. His first encounter was
summer 1971.
Rob slept in on a Saturday. His mom was shopping
and his dad was out repairing rental property so he had their home in
Niskayuna, N.Y., to himself.
“I proceeded down the hall to the
kitchen to make myself something to eat for breakfast (and) I fell flat
on my face,” Rob said. “It felt as though I was pushed.”
Rob tried to push himself up but couldn’t move – he felt someone standing on his back.
“All
of a sudden things gave way and my arms had straightened out and I was
staring down the hall to the living room just in time to witness what
appeared to be a silhouette of a man in a trench coat wearing a fedora
move from the living room to the dining room,” he said.
Rob would later call this entity the Hat Man, but despite the attack, Rob followed it.
“What
I did next I find hard to believe,” he said. “I ran into the adjoining
kitchen, grabbed the biggest knife I could find and ran into the
dinning room.”
The Hat Man wasn’t there. The sliding glass door
that led from the dining room to the back porch was still closed, the
drapes covering it hung still. He ran through the house and found
himself alone, clenching a knife. All the doors and windows were locked.
“I
searched that house good,” he said. “Nothing. I went back to the dining
room and checked the sliding glass door again. It was locked.”
But
he hadn’t heard the front door open, so the back porch was the only way
out. He unlocked the sliding glass door and stepped onto the porch,
thinking the Hat Man had somehow locked the sliding door behind him and
leapt off the porch. But 10 feet below the porch railing was rock – and
that was the only way down.
“My father had the builders
purposely not install a stairway up to the porch to prevent any
intrusions,” Rob said. The Hat Man was gone, and he didn’t jump off the
porch.
Was the Hat Man real, or just a side effect of the brain tumor? Rob wondered.
“What exactly did I see or did I see it?” he asked. “And how am I gonna tell Mom?”
Rob’s
mother listened to his story, and filed it away as a product of
radiation or an overactive 11-year-old mind … until she saw the
handiwork of the Hat Man herself.
Seven days later, “my mother
prepared breakfast in the dining room, opened the drapes and got the
shock of her life,” Rob said. “The sliding glass door was shattered.”
The
entire six-foot glass door had been broken into small pieces. Not by a
projectile from outside the house, but from something inside – only the
interior of the double-pane glass was shattered. Rob was sure the Hat
Man had been hiding inside the door.
But that was just the
beginning. Although Rob hasn’t seen the Hat Man since he was 11, he’s
seen similar shadow beings all his life, although nothing has pushed
him or broken glass in decades.
Now an Internet programmer with two children, shadow people remain a part of his life.
“I
still see them after 30-plus years and more often now since I have
moved in with my elderly father,” Rob said. “It’s not disturbing to me
other than they won’t stay still long enough for me to take a good look
at them. They appear as semi-transparent charcoal gray foggy
silhouettes that I catch in the corner of my eye.”
When Rob tries to look at them straight on, they zip away.
“I
see them mostly in doorways and hallways,” Rob said. “I saw one once
dash around a sofa. This tells me they can see objects – probably
including me. I don’t get excited, (they’re) pretty commonplace with me
after all these years.
“How often do I see these shadow people?” Rob said. “All the time.”
Copyright 2007 by Jason Offutt
Got
a scary story? Ever played with a Ouija board, heard voices, seen a
ghost, UFO or a creature you couldn’t identify? Let Jason know about
it: Jason Offutt c/o The Examiner, 410 S. Liberty, Independence, Mo.
64050, or
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