Ghosts, Graves, and Glowing Men

I don’t feel like writing.
But I want to write it all.

I suppose I can find some notion to articulate the sensory unraveling I’m experiencing. Today, I did a million things, so why not one more? This weekend was nothing short of an out-of-body experience. For some time now — by some time, I mean almost a year — I’ve felt absurdly tied down. The girl who drove back from Florida, fierce and brazen, is long gone. In fact, ever since my cat died in 2023, things have gone haywire. I spent most of the year trying to decipher what the hell this cat’s death was supposed to teach me. Maybe it was a lesson to move forward, to close a chapter that he was such an essential part of. But no, it wasn’t that. Time crept by, and I lost hair to stress, tears, and an unfathomable amount of bleach. I spent months doctor-hopping, searching for answers, some remedy for my physical ailments. Yet nothing was found. I got multiple diagnoses — some made me laugh, others made me cry. None of them were accurate.

As time went on, I fell into this character I had become: a person surviving. One day, I noticed a tiny scab on my arm, something I started to pick at. It spread, consuming my limbs, chest, legs, body… even my face. It was rage. Anger. Denial. A hurricane-five-strength force, strong enough to knock down anyone in its path. Which brings me to this weekend.

I’ve lived with this obnoxious version of myself for almost two years now. Her anger and rage constantly taking over, running every function. She was feral, savage, with a nose for bullshit. One look at a person, and she could smell the rot in their veins. Instead of that being a trigger to avoid them, it was an invitation — a challenge. To watch and be watched. To play the part of the adoring fan, the innocent girl, while my mind dissected the shit stain in front of me. Observing every feature, smile, smirk, and wink, she would whisper, “Watch… see? He thinks you’re so stupid.” And within seconds, I’d become her puppet. I’d become a willing participant in the villain within me. I’d learned to let her be. After all, the past two years taught me a strange kind of pain, leaving me numb. No medication could cure it. And back to my initial thought: I felt tied down, bound by ropes I couldn’t see.

I had planned to attend a local event, one with ghosts, graveyards, and a bit of taboo spirituality shrouded in a tiny church. I’d been excited — until I set foot in that graveyard. Every part of me screamed, “You don’t belong here. You must leave.” I even said three times, “We should go.” I blamed it on my social anxiety, but it felt more like stepping onto hallowed ground where I was neither wanted nor invited. The souls there were not pleased with my presence; they knew who I was.

The tour started, and we entered a tiny, one-room church. I squeezed into a pew, feeling out of place, while others around me acted as though they had a right to be there. I stared ahead, feeling like everyone in that room was watching me. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why everyone there was over sixty. The historian at the front went on and on about the church and land’s history, each word deepening my sense of not belonging. I half-expected him to say, “This land wasn’t originally ours; we pillaged a nation of Native Americans and claimed it.” I touched the edge of a hymn book, and my companion put my finger down with a stern look. Like a child, I lifted it again, and he scolded me with his eyes. I realized then that my nuisance of an alter ego was front and center.

On my left was a woman dressed in late 1800s colonial wear, with a face-framing hat that looked annoyingly heavy. She held her hands delicately at her diaphragm, watching over everyone with an air of authority. To the speaker’s right stood a young girl in a sage or pewter blue dress, her hair stringy, her demeanor shy. She avoided eye contact with the audience. No one else seemed to notice them. Meanwhile, the old woman in front of me jingled every time she moved, a man and woman bickered to my right, and people at the front scrolled their phones. I felt the urge again: “I need to leave. I don’t belong here.”

Finally, the tour moved outside to the graveyard, but those two women were nowhere in sight. However, one of them was the first grave we visited. Her name was Sarah.

Oh… did I mention I see ghosts?

I didn’t particularly care for the matronly woman, but Sarah… Sarah caught my attention. It was while I stood among elderly strangers that I realized I needed to leave. I turned to my companion and said, “We need to go… now.”

We left. I would’ve never thought that, later that night, I’d end up sprawled on the floor of an emergency vet hospital, my dog’s head in my lap. The day’s events felt like a blur, surreal and senseless. It was as if everything built up to a final act. As I sat on the filthy floor, clutching my dog, an older man — a giant, at least seven feet tall (or what I perceived to be seven feet tall)— walked over to us. All I could think was, “Why the fuck is he glowing?” and “He looks good for his age.” That’s when my true out-of-body experience began. Maybe it was my mental health failing, or maybe my body was shutting down, but I could see myself from above, watching him approach. He murmured something with a soft smile, and I just sat there, glassy-eyed, my gaze fixed on nothing. He reached his hand toward my dog and smiled gently, but I didn’t move. He stepped back, hands in his pockets, and walked away. I caught a glimpse of his “wife” — a middle-aged Italian woman, or so I thought. Only later did I realize she was more like 17. I brushed it off as trauma playing tricks on me.

I saw the man one more time that evening. By then, I’d stopped crying and had managed to curl up against the medical table, my dog in my lap. I was wearing my favorite ugly, beat-up Adidas sneakers and, for some reason, felt self-conscious about them. But the man approached us again, half-smiling as he outstretched his palm toward my dog, who touched his hand with her nose. This time, I looked up at him, thinking, “He’s so fucking tall… what is that glow around him?” But then I was suddenly jolted back to reality as I saw my father peering through the lobby door, his face saying everything. He looked at me and my dog, clearly alarmed. We hadn’t talked in nearly a year, but he immediately sat down beside me. I looked around for the tall, glowing man with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses, but he was nowhere to be found.

I then heard the young woman, whom I’d assumed was his daughter, excitedly laughing and saying what a “good boy” her dog had been. I turned to see if she was talking to him, but there was no one behind me. She was talking to someone who wasn’t there, smiling and happily repeating, “He did so well!” By then, I was sure I was having a breakdown and curled up against the table again.

Time seemed to warp, with doctors and techs surrounding me, saying things like, “We’re going to stabilize her, and you’re going to get in your car and go.” One woman — blonde, put-together, like a cute, organized caboodle box — spoke to me, trying to keep me grounded. She must’ve noticed I was dissociating because she said “okay?” about three times before I blinked and answered. “Riverhead,” she said, naming a place about a 45-minute drive away. “Past the Native American reservation,” I blurted out, and she nodded. Suddenly, a very large woman bent down and picked up my 60-pound dog as if she weighed nothing. I looked at the invisible camera and then my dad to see if he had seen the same thing as me. He looked at me with the same “what the fuck?” look on his face.

I stepped outside to pull my truck around, somehow made it to the driver’s seat, and plugged in the address. “Go… go now; the doctor is waiting for you.” I looked at my dad and asked, “How do I get to the highway?” A highway I knew like the back of my hand was suddenly foreign. He snapped directions at me, and off we went. I was warned my dog might not survive the drive, but I did 80–85 mph the whole way there, my mind half-convinced I could outrun any cops. If I got pulled over, I’d demand a police escort to the vet.

Fifty minutes later, we arrived, running on fumes and a prayer. In the middle of nowhere, way past Riverhead, it was cold and terrifying. My dog was immediately taken away, and I was handed stacks of forms to sign, including a DNR. I looked around and asked to see her before surgery, but she was already in. Time blurred; about an hour later, the doctor returned, shoes splattered with blood. He explained how she’d survived but lost her spleen and had suffered significant internal bleeding. As I sat there, taking it all in, I thought of the glowing man.

After what felt like ages, they brought me back to her. The room smelled faintly of cleaning products and blood. There she was, groggy but wagging her tail, giving me airplane ears. I dropped to my knees and whispered to her. The doctor commented, “This was unusual. Her condition was so bad, we didn’t expect her to make it.”

We left her there, and I did 90 mph the entire drive home. We were so far out on the island, I was seeing deer along the highway. I pointed them out to my father, who replied, “There’s no deer there.” I saw shooting stars through the pitch darkness. My brain was capturing data too fast to process, only to replay it later.

I was told she might not survive the night, but she did. The next day, I brought her home.

Now, as I sit here in my makeshift vet hospital room (my bedroom), with her sleeping peacefully in her crate, I’m left thinking, “What the fuck was that all about?” None of it makes sense. The whole day, the glowing man… none of it. But, for the first time in two years, I don’t feel tied down. I don’t feel like I’m being restrained. I feel like the girl I was two years ago, like some spell shattered.

Maybe it’s just trauma. But whatever it is, I can’t explain it. I can’t explain any of it. So… I’ll share it here for maybe one or two people to read. Maybe others have had out-of-body experiences. I’m not looking for answers. I’m not looking for anything. I don’t know. I just wanted to get this out.

I didn’t feel like writing…
but I had to write it all.

For those who listen between the lines.
Elaine Degro