Something terrifying is happening to me right now: my book
sales have been flatlining for quite a while. I have no one to blame but myself
because I suck in getting them out there. I'm not a fan of advertisements, so I
also don't wish to subject others to advertisements about my books, and that
earned me virtual smacks from several online acquaintances who tried their best
not to yell at me, "How do you sell anything if you never tell
anyone?"
Okay, I tell people through this newsletter. I am sorry you
are the unlucky lots, but I feel safe hiding here. I almost always put my books
down there after you are sick of scrolling unless I have a new book coming up
or a promotion, which hardly crossed my mind. Not because I am stingy, but
because I am really bad at this marketing stuff.
So here we go; I am trying and sorry for this!
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Now that we've got it out of the way, in the spirit of
October and the actual day of Halloween, as promised, I am here to share
another creepy real story. This was told by my dad.
My dad worked in remote, untouched jungles from when he was a
teenager until his forties. Yes, he was barely there during my childhood. I
remember thinking, 'Hey, this stranger is very nice to me', not registering
that he was my dad during one of his rare times at home, but he worked hard to
provide for us. He is the best dad, and he has a lot of stories to share about
his time in the jungle. While those stories are weird, they are 'normal,' about
his work conditions, wild animals they encountered, the exploration of
untouched areas, etc. He is a very honest person; I don't remember him telling
a lie to me or anyone; he is the kind of person who would rather not answer you
instead of lying, even for fun purposes.
So, this one story of his sent a shiver down our spines when
he told us. It didn't help that he was also visibly uncomfortable, something I
rarely witnessed. You must have heard some permutations of this in movies or
fiction before, but this happened to my dad.
It
took place in our small town in west Borneo near noon time during his
walk (it was normal to walk around, not every place was reachable by
public transportation), he came across an acquaintance who was also
walking somewhere across the street, so my dad called him up. It was someone he
knew quite well, and Dad wanted to check on him, knowing the person (let's call
him John) had some ongoing health issue. So, Dad asked if John was feeling
better, and John answered something along the lines of "It's fine,"
although it was not straightforward because he seemed distracted. It's like
when you talk to a person whose mind is somewhere else, but he is still able to
hold the conversation. They talked for a while, and Dad got the sense that John
might be in a hurry because now he realized there was someone standing a
distance away, and he was waiting for John.
According to Dad, the waiting man was unremarkable; nothing
stood out or memorable; he couldn't even remember his face and the man never
said anything. Thinking of nothing, Dad ended the conversation and let John go.
John walked up to the person waiting, and they both walked away together while
Dad made his way home.
On that very same day, he heard the news that John had passed
away, but it didn't add up because John had passed since morning, and Dad met
him around noon, a couple of hours after that. However, his family was with him, and
they all confirmed the time and the fact that John had never left the house.
I hardly think about it, but for some, they continue to look
for answers about the afterlife and what will happen after we take our last
breaths. Does this mean we at least have someone to guide us? Is he some kind
of grim reaper or just someone to show the way? I don't know, I am not really
curious about afterlife. For Dad, he always wonders what would happen if he
didn't let John go or insisted on having a cup of coffee or bringing him back
to his home? I guess we'll never know. It has never happened again, but this
story is embedded forever in our minds.
There you go, enjoy the spooky spooky for those who celebrate
it. I'll eat some candy bars as a form of solidarity.
