Meet my father, Joseph....oh and that's me sitting in his lap.
I'VE PURPOSEFULLY NOT ADDED ANY FRIGHTENING IMAGES, AS TO NOT CHEAPEN THE REALNESS OF THE STORY.
My dad, like many other young men during the Vietnam war became entangled in a conflict which claimed over 50,000 American lives, and some estimates state over 3 million total lives lost including allied forces, civilians and Viet-Cong. If these young American men were lucky enough to make it back home safely--it didn't necessarily mean it was back in one piece. Thousands of men lost limbs, eye-sight, suffered health issues for the rest of their lives, and sadly many lost their minds. My father was one who made it back home to the states, but not fully whole.
When I was a small child visiting him during the summers (due to my parents divorcing when I was three years old), I distinctly remember him introducing me to Vietnam war films such as Platoon, Full Metal Jacket, and Apocalypse Now.
Looking back now, I obviously should not have been shown these films at my young age of six or seven years old, but I do think my dad was in some way reliving those moments of hell through the lens of the cinema, and in some strange way trying to introduce himself and connect with me in the best way he knew how. This type of film watching went on through the years when I would visit him. I didn't really ask too many questions about him actually being in the war most likely due to the fact, that I wasn't able to piece together fantasy from reality.
Fast forward a few years to when I am around twelve years old.... I specifically remember riding in the car with my dad, and we happened to be discussing Platoon, and the amount of killing in the film. I casually and excitedly asked my father if he had killed any Vietcong during his time in the war. I will never forget the change that flashed across his face as he lashed out at me for asking such a foolish question. I knew from the stories my father had told me that he had been shot in his butt during his time in Vietnam, and also had a huge gash of a scar on his arm that was a brutal reminder he had once been sliced by either a knife or a sword during a close encounter battle. My father was vicious in his swift attack on me at twelve years old--he screamed in the car "Why would you ask me that? IF I HAD KILLED SOMEONE, DO YOU THINK I WANT TO BE REMINDED OF IT." I remember being frightened and scared of any further reaction he may have to my questions. I looked over at him during the silence, and noticed he was rubbing his hands through his hair, and wasn't fully present in the car with me any longer. I now assume that he was back in the jungles of Vietnam reliving those hell filled moments when he took another man's life from this Earth.
As the years have passed and I've grown into adulthood, my father and I have had many conversations about his time during the war. He slowly but surely began to get help in dealing with the demons that he carried with him.
This is where my supernatural story begins...
When I came back home to my mother after my father had lashed out at me in the car at twelve years old, and when he was gone, I opened up and told her about the incident. I began to question my mother if she knew anything about his experience during the war, and if he had ever shared any memories or experiences with her during their short marriage. She never elaborated on any specific stories that he had volunteered, but what she did tell me sent chills down my spine.
My mother (RIP) began to tell me about a time when I was a small child around two years old, and the events that took place over one especially argue filled day she was having with my father. My father was a screamer, and when he became angry--the intensity and fire that would blaze in his eyes was a scary sight. She proceeded to tell me that that day had consisted of them both yelling and screaming over each other at the top of their lungs. She didn't remember what the fight was about, only that on that particular day, the arguing was worse than any previous fights they had had. As I said earlier, my parents split when I was three, so this battle had to be near the end of their relationship. For hours that day, my parents screamed, cursed, degraded and hurled insults at one other as my brother, sister and I helplessly witnessed the exchange. Being so young, I don't remember the event, but my brother who is eight years my senior surely does.
According to my mother, as the night began to fall and bedtime approached, she gathered me in her arms and headed towards her and my fathers bedroom. My mother claimed that she immediately felt an uneasy almost thick presence and chilling temperature in the room. She turned around heading back through the hallway to the living room only to meet my father halfway, who ordered her back to the room. She told him what she had just experienced, but he demanded she turn back around into the room. As they both walked back to their bedroom, my father entered first, and in the words of my mother, suddenly turned around saying that everyone would sleep in the living room for the night. My mom and dad grabbed my brother and sister who were already in their rooms to join the family in the living room.
What happened next sounded to me like it belonged in a horror film....
My mother told me that as she was making the pallet and laying out the pillows on the floor for us to sleep, she began to hear clinking sounds coming from the kitchen that happened to be in plain sight to the living room. Apparently, the rest of my family heard the sounds as well, because all sat silent wondering what was making the noise. As my mom described, it quickly became obvious that the clinking noise was coming from hanging pots and pans above the stove top. Not only could we hear these sounds, but also see the actual metal pans banging against each other with increasing energy and force. As a young man, I had an extreme amount of disbelief, but also wild excitement at what I was hearing. She went on. As the pots and pans began to gain more energy, my mother claimed that they began to collectively fly off of their hooks and form a circling pattern in the middle of the kitchen. The noise of the swishing and swirling became louder and louder, and without warning the metal objects in blinding speed began to sail towards our family. As if trying to frighten us to death, the objects would fly towards our faces, but at the last minute break away and not actually touch us. We as a family were frozen in fear unable to move or speak a word. This frightening ordeal lasted for a total of around fifteen to twenty minutes according to my mother. My family closed their eyes and prayed that God would intervene and save them. She told me that the movement and sound from the pots and pans slowly began to dwindle down until all in the house was completely still and silent. I asked her what happened next, and as anticlimactic as it is...she said "nothing happened next, we were emotionally, spiritually, and physically exhausted, we all fell asleep on the floor."
I assumed that my mother and father would have discussed this in great length the following day. NOPE. Believe it or not, they never discussed it again. I was skeptical to say the least, but my mom encouraged me to ask my father about it the next time I saw him. I did. The very next visit I had with my father, I mentioned I wanted to speak with him about something that I thought was untrue. I was fourteen at this point. My dad said sure and to ask away. When I began describing what my mom had told me, my dad quickly interrupted saying he didn't want to discuss. DAMNIT! I tried to persist and extract even a few small details about what may or may not have happened, but he was firm on his decision not to discuss the matter. After pleading for a few minutes and hearing "NO" again and again, I decided not to continue to pry. He had his reasons for not sharing this with me, and whether I liked it or not, I had to respect his decision. When I came home and told my mom that he hadn't wanted to discuss it with me, she just shook her head, not in a judgemental manner, but almost as if she understood his reasoning.
Life went on.....
Fast forward to me being twenty years old, a full seven years after I had originally been told this story.
My dad and I were visiting with one another, when for whatever reason the story happened to pop up in my head. I began to slowly and cautiously word my questions to my dad. As time had passed over the years, and we both had grown older, I believe we (especially him), had begun to respect and understand each other, and more importantly accept ourselves more fully. My father listened as I described the events just as my mother had told them to me. He sat silent not saying a word as I went from detail to detail unfolding the events of that day in question. I unearthed memories for him. I uncovered a side of himself that he had most likely tried to forget. My dad listened and then became teary eyed. I realized that this emotional day many years ago was even more powerful than I had originally suspected. Throughout my description of the situation including all images that my mother had shared, my father never said a word. When I finally finished the story, he sat for a moment reflecting on what he had just heard. I desperately waited for a response indicating whether or not the story my mother had told me was true. He stared down at his hands for a what seemed like an eternity, and then looked up at me and said "the way your mother described it is EXACTLY how it happened." That was it---he never talked about the actual happening of the event again. I knew not to push or pry. We sat for a few moments and then being a naive young man I asked him why and what he thought was in the house that day.
Through tears, my dad shared with me that day about his killing of another man in war times, and also what that felt like. He shared with me that he has never nor will ever fully get over the sight of looking into another man's eyes as the life is being drained from him. My father believes that he most definitely had brought home (back to America) some evil spirits. In his own words, he was "angry at the world" when he returned home, and on that particular day in our history--through the arguing, screaming, cursing and negative thoughts he had essentially conjured up these demons or evil spirits that had been residing inside of him waiting for the opportune time to reveal themselves.
Thankfully, my father has received an enormous amount of help and assistance from VA groups. He has shared stories and wept loudly over his past, and as the years tick away, he becomes softer in his approach not only towards others, but also towards himself. I've reminded him through the years that WE ARE NOT OUR PAST, and will continue to do so, not only for him, but for myself and others I meet in this journey called life.
Although, I don't remember this event in my life--it definitely affected me. I do now believe in evil spirits and the supernatural. I believe that we are gateways for good or bad in our lives. The negativity or positivity we have in our lives can effect us in so many ways. While the situation may not always or ever manifest into something as crazy as I've described above, the supernatural realm is always around us living, breathing and watching.
JOHN GABRIEL