A Selection of Haunting Memories

As some might already be aware, I grew up in a remote, densely wooded area in the Siskiyou Mountains of Southern Oregon/Northern California. My immediate ‘neighborhood’ was more just a collection of old quarry-worker’s houses roughly scattered along a mile of packed granite roadway.

Being raised in an area devoid of streetlights (or even immediate neighbors), one grew to accept the twilight, as well as any mysterious and enigmatic experiences one might also find within the night’s embrace. Even porchlights became more a hinderance than a help in such a setting, as they ruined one’s night-vision and effectively rendered one blind to all but their localized glare. I can still recount vivid childhood impressions of such nocturnal adventures: like that time a predatory cat (still unsure whether it was bobcat or cougar) slipped through the window opening into the velvet blackness of our as-yet finished residence before being driven out amid a great din of blind yowling, barking, yelping and shouting…the countless times waking late on a moonlit night and seeing the darken shapes of the local coyote pack darting silently past the window…returning from the laundry shed and having to make that long, twilight trek through the tunnel of trees towards that distant porch beacon while hair bristled on one’s neck with the assurance that doom lingered just over one’s shoulder…and, how many times did I venture solo into some compelling new cave passageway, then extinguished my light to sit in stillness within the earth’s bosom, staring wide-eyed into the pitch-black abyss accompanied only by the echoing drip of water?

Yeah, it might even be said my childhood inspired me to cherish the mysterious and unknown, to be ever compelled by a hunger for new experience and exploration…whatever the journey might reveal in the end. It was quite common to find me venturing off alone into the wilderness of my youth (usually accompanied in latter years by my ever loyal ex-cattle dog Queenie), and although my teenage years were often quite difficult, it never really occurred to me to run away. Why go to all the trouble when all one needed was to pack up a rucksack and go on “walkabout” for a change of perspective (and one could always find willing companions if one so wished)?

I’m sure there are those who would deem such behavior foolhardy…reckless even. Perhaps these categorizations might even be somewhat “appropriate,” as many humans seem content distinguishing themselves as being ‘at odds’ with the natural world: caught in a conflict where one either becomes the ‘victor’ or is ‘victimized’ (and for many today, this isn’t far from the truth of it). Regardless, for those of us raised to respect the jurisdiction of a more “unbiased and inclusive” decree of natural law, such strict dichotomies simply hold less relevance, as risk, struggle, even potential for injury were ever the expectation, not the exception. One learned early on that danger was an ever-present companion: take for example those times on remote walkabouts where one might sense “something else” present: the forest growing suspiciously silent (not even a bird might be heard) where one has the distinct feeling of being watched…and even, at times, stalked. Such an encounter is (or, at least should be) enough to alter one’s path entirely. To an urbanite such sylvan intuitions might simply be overlooked amid a background noise of foreign sensations, but to one for whom being attuned to the natural world has become part and parcel of their day to day existence (even if dismissed away later as merely “the jitters”), such experience is still noteworthy, and not so easily ignored…

…but perhaps I digress.

After High School (and a brief taste of scholastic life at a local community college), I began to crave new adventures. Soon my rural upbringing was challenged to encompass that of the urban as I moved to Portland in an attempt to fulfill my then-lifelong dream of attending art school. Having no real means of funding other than those enabled through my own ingenuity and determination, reducing expenses became a pressing concern. After an initial trial period getting my “urban bearings” (initially quite a shock to my rural sensibilities) and finding stable employment, I managed to work myself into a succession of shared-living scenarios that I could readily afford (while also offering the potential to save money towards future tuition).

As such, one late spring day, myself and a couple Lewis and Clark college attendees found ourselves knocking on the door of a massive, 2 story, turn of the century house listed for rent within the former SE Italian District. It conveniently sat adjacent to a local independent super-market/laundry-mat, while also being a modest bicycle commute (through Ladd’s Addition then across the river via the Hawthorne Bridge) into downtown. A couple blocks up the street there was also an independent theatre, a coffee shop, as well as a restaurant (or two) all clustered around a shared intersection. Best yet, the house listed with 4 bedrooms and a full basement (I preferred having space for a live-in studio over more traditional amenities), all of which would certainly accommodate the 5 of us would-be renters quite easily…seeing this massive living space for the first time -a far cry from the 2 bedroom duplex an even greater number of us had crowded into the summer prior- we were understandably quite ecstatic.

The door opened, and we were greeted by a rather disgruntled and disheveled looking occupant. After an initial exchange of pleasantries, we announced the reason for our visit: we wished to do a walk-through of the house in order to determine whether or not it suited us for rental. This was met with what seemed trepidation by our reluctant host (I recall a look of grave concern, in fact). Regardless, we were eventually let in and graciously shown around the space, and it indeed seemed to fit our needs perfectly: one couldn’t ask for a better answer to even our wildest dreams of the time. 1/3 of the basement -my room- was finished out in mahogany; boxed-beams, wainscot, built in cabinets, and even had its own free-standing shower stall and utility sink!

We all became increasingly excited by even the thought of living in such a house…it was perfect…but why was it so cheap? After our completed tour, we all gathered again in the living room -facing out through its original ripple-paned, lead-glazed picture windows- and quietly discussed our apparent good fortune amongst ourselves, already fretting and calculating how we might somehow manage to gather the funds for first, last, and deposit by weeks end…when we were interrupted by another of the current renters who, coming down from upstairs specifically to meet us, and, after first asking if we were considering renting the place (and upon our confirming this) insisted that we most assuredly SHOULD NOT. We then held audience for a collection of tales that defied belief.

Apparently, this soon to be ex-occupant felt compelled to try warn us of the darker nature of this seemingly blessed space we stood -and were contemplating living- within. Stories of mysteriously opening and closing doors (and windows), inexplicably missing items, phantom footsteps…but perhaps the most compelling (and I must admit chilling) account was the one allegedly witnessed by the storyteller herself: upon waking from a deep sleep in the very living room we stood in, she had seen an apparition rise up from the floor, pass through the ceiling, which was then seen moments later by the occupant in the bedroom above. Incredulous as it may have seemed, it was hard to reject the tale entirely, as one could readily observe the affect this retelling had upon her…she was visibly shaken still, and stated emphatically it was precisely for such reasons she wanted out of the lease.

On the shared ride back, we discussed all we had gleaned during our visit, shared our impressions of the place, debated the seemingly tall tales we had been subjected to, but eventually our long list of compellingly pragmatic and rational justifications had us concluding that it was simply “too perfect” an opportunity to pass up…surely we had just been subjected to rather salty attempts to stave off loss of their lease until their own (assumed) financial difficulties were solved? Alternatively, perhaps there was an ongoing disagreement with the landlord that they hoped might still be resolved with further delay? Regardless, it was unanimously decided we would gather the needed funds and sign into a lease before such a prime opportunity was lost forever…to consider any other course of action simply didn’t seem prudent.

Things went as planned, and we soon found ourselves in residence. I eagerly moved into my basement “studio” and (as I had acquired a quality refurbished stereo for cheap at a local repair shop in order to indulge my sizeable-“Django’s enhanced” record collection) my “room” soon became a party hotspot. Late one night in Fall, I salvaged an old woodstove from a condemned building nearby (installing it into one of the house’s unused chimneys after carrying it half a dozen blocks back to the house) which when stoked, rendered the mostly below ground space rather warm and inviting. I hung recent artwork, curated a collection of found objects/relics and built shelving so that my ever-growing library lined the walls. Trips to Flea Markets (and a keen eye for “free” discards from yard sales) furnished the space with chairs, futons (even a decorative throw pillow or two)…making it equal parts spacious and comfortable.

Soon many a social gathering culminated in my “room” by evening’s end, as those who found it “too late to safely make their way home” found refuge in my studio instead. But another, rather curious thing also began to occur during such gatherings: at random (and seemingly subconscious) moments people could be seen to glance at the foot of the broad stairs that descended from the kitchen, past the mid-point landing/side entrance of the house, and then ending (not so ironically it now seems) at a point below where the previous tenant had seen her “apparition.” When asked what they had been looking at, the answer consistently was “…your white cat.” When corrected, most insisted that we indeed had such an animal in the house (we certainly did not-the only pet we had was a dog who would not have overlooked such a stowaway), and were generally quite unwilling to concede they might have been mistaken. It soon became a household joke: “our imaginary pet” as every public gathering just seemed to increase its notoriety.

Meanwhile, unusual experiences within the house did indeed seem to occur as foretold; such as the random slamming of doors (particularly the upstairs bathroom), missing personal affects that would then seemingly reappear in the oddest of places, creaking footsteps heard when no one else was present…but the most disturbing experiences for me began with the dreams. I began having a very vivid reoccurring dream that slowly revealed its nightmarish entirety over the course of months (I will culminate it for expediency):

It always started from the POV of ‘me’ as an elderly person puttering around in the kitchen accompanied by a white cat. Eventually ‘I’ turn and begin descending the long, wide course of stairs from the kitchen into the basement, the white cat now following along at ‘my’ side. Once to the landing (and side door) at ground level, and just before descending the next flight down, the cat suddenly (and most unexpectedly) darted between ‘my’ legs causing ‘me’ to trip and fall headlong to the bottom. Upon final impact with the floor/sidewall a loud “crack” is heard and ‘I’ feel numbness, cold, and nausea flood over ‘me’ in waves…as ‘I’ lay there, unable to move and vision slowly fading, ‘I’ still see the cat pacing back and forth in front of ‘my’ unblinking eyes, meowing, pawing and pushing against ‘my’ face. The POV then shifts to overhead as the camera pans back from the scene of a crumpled and broken old man at the bottom of the basement stairwell, his head cocked at an unnatural angle, a cat pacing nervously back and forth around his head meowing and pawing tentatively at the still form…I would wake up with a start: heart hammering and bathed in a cold sweat. Following this, I would be unable to return to sleep. It was so real, so visceral, that it was impossible for me not to think of it having been an actual occurrence, somehow.

At the time I was a practicing Buddhist, and so gathering up my courage, I finally asked one of the more “approachable elders” at the temple what it might all mean…he was intrigued by the experience, and suggested (although it is quite apparent to me now he likely completely misunderstood) that I was “reliving past life trauma.” Having been practicing a form of meditation intent upon revealing precisely such already, he recommended I commit myself to try awaken this ‘repressed memory’ as well…although I don’t think it went quite as expected. As the now nightmarish dream continued to plague me (becoming even more detailed and sensory) nightly, I made ‘resolving this karma’ a central focus of my practice, and it didn’t take much longer before I received a resolution (of sorts).

Waking once again from the dream in the deepest dark of early morning (sometime around 3:20 had become the routine), I sat up and habitually glanced over at the red digital clock when suddenly I felt myself laid prone again by an unseen force; it felt as if a thick lead blanket had been dropped on me, and found I could no longer move my limbs, my head, close my eyes nor even so much as breathe. It was as if my body (including my autonomic system, apparently) were completely switched “off.” A rising sense of panic overwhelmed me…I tried to struggle, but there was no physical means available for me to do so…I was consciousness solely, trapped within a cage of useless, lifeless meat…and even awareness was waning. The only tool I had left at my disposal was an unquenchable will to resist: anger, outrage and frustration built within me and as it rose to a crescendo I was finally able to utter a single, barely audible word…

”…no.”

I suddenly shot out of bed as if launched; and was on my feet and nervously pacing in an instant, mumbling manically to myself as my mind desperately tried to process what had just happened. Deeply disturbed and utterly terrified by the experience, I mindlessly threw on some clothes and ventured out into the coldest hours of the morning, allowing my feet free rein while my widened eyes continued staring blindly within…a seemingly new form of walkabout I once thought only possible in the wild had taken hold of me; and it was only when the rising sun finally woke me from my trance (now finding myself well across the Willamette both famished and exhausted), that I turned myself back homeward.

Far from over, this newest development repeated its terrifying routine for weeks after introduced: anytime I did succumb to sleep, it would conclude with the same experience (that most might simply write off now as “sleep paralysis” but to me still feels like a desperate fight for life and test of will). In time, this nightly struggle was finally overcome (a story in and of itself), although I know now its side-effects long remained. I was indeed traumatized; often spending 23 hours awake at a stretch, painting and drawing night and day, shirking responsibilities, engaging in questionable decision making and on urban walkabouts much of the rest of the time. This turn for the worst eventually led to my dropping out of Art School, a rending of my social fabric, found me skirting the precipitous edge of a nervous breakdown, moving out of my once-cherished studio basement in disgrace, finding salvation through the discipline of dance (accompanied by a reboot of sorts in the rural outskirts of Oregon City), and eventually, new adventures as a drummer in an Alt-Rock band…but that all is another story, entirely.

Years (lifetimes) later, while living just up the road (at a band house dubbed “the Orphanage”) we heard rumor that the old “Ghost House” was slated for demolition. Emboldened by both the passage of time and perhaps a bit too much alcohol, we all decided to go down for one last visit in order to see if the far-out stories contained any truth, or were just tall tales given greater height by each retelling. Making our way down the dark streets as quietly as we were able (considering our inebriated state), once at the house, I went to a back basement window that had always allowed entry if jimmied out of its worn track, and was surprised to find that it still hadn’t been fixed. Gingerly lowering myself down, I was immediately overcome with that familiar old fear; now rendered completely sober, and feeling as exposed and vulnerable as I once had. Forcing the rising panic back down, I turned on my bike-light and made my way through the storage room, past where the furnace, sink, and shower-stall were, into the main room which once would have revealed the familiar wainscot and built-in hutches, but now was lined floor, walls and ceiling with something…else. Creeped out even more now, I hurried up to the side door and let the others in: most of them went immediately upstairs to check the main floors, but something compelled me to return to the basement.

Stepping tentatively and mindfully down these stairs of woken dream once again, I swept my now seemingly inadequate light around the room, careful to keep it low so as to not have it illuminate areas where I knew windows were (no sense getting ourselves arrested for trespassing)…but even the diminished light confirmed that the room was indeed now completely lined with a heavy, black plastic. Glancing quickly around, I first saw what appeared to be wet spots, but also began to notice strange symbols and figures drawn or painted on the plastic of the walls, floors, ceiling…others joined me, but by then I was near-immediately overcome by my irrational panic, and I suddenly found myself up the stairs and out the side door before I could even form another thought. Feeling as if I had managed to defy the odds by somehow escaping outside, I felt no desire to venture into that house ever again. Others seemed to share the sentiment, because it wasn’t much longer before they had all joined me; the last one out shutting the side door with a definitive, final “clack” of the lock. As we hurried back up the street to our decidedly more inviting new abode, many remarked on how “creepy” the place had felt, and even though only a few of us present had been around during those original “Ghost House” days, all agreed that they had enough of that spooky old house, and wouldn’t miss it once it was gone…thankfully we didn’t have to wait long: it was torn down within the month.

…this next haunted memory took place within the Emerald City of Seattle…

Many years had passed in the wake of the first story, and I was now quickly approaching 30. I also had by and large given up on the idea of “the Arts” as an occupation at that point, as I now had a family I needed to dependably provide for. As a means toward this end, I had fallen back onto my trade-skills: namely carpentry and other sub-contracted construction work. After the usual grab-bag of projects offering varying degrees of ‘financial success’ (or lack thereof) I found gainful employment with a family friend who was owner/operator of a popular local arts/music venue and café just a short distance off the boardwalk of Elliot Bay. This once modest art/performance space was being expanded to include a bar (via the vacant hardware store next door), and as I had a decent skillset regarding such diversely challenging projects (due in no small part to my rural upbringing), I was brought on to help lend what aid I could towards this rather extensive remodel.

Now, it must be pointed out that the building in question -a historic brick hotel built after the time of the great Seattle fire, and whose original lobby comprised the very venue which we were expanding, spanned nearly 1/2 of a city block adjacent to Pioneer Square. Throughout the basement and back-alley warehouse were the cluttered remnants of its previous life: stacks of broken and abandoned furniture, boxes of moldering personal affects, and decades worth of other absent-minded cast-offs crowded most available non-critical storage space…there was even an infamous ‘green room’ located beneath the café resplendent with a mural whose enigmatic and surreal depictions were rumored to have been created by a less-than-abstaining hermit who had ‘shut-within’ the room for an indeterminant time; an urban legend made complete with the rumor of a resulting, and untimely, death. The building was a looming, shadow-filled, bygone place, whose upper 4 floors -with the exception of a back alley photography studio/darkroom, and a viaduct-facing front apartment/office- had been long since abandoned to all but the memories of its rather sordid past.

The first foreshadowing of experiences to come was unveiled while we were rebuilding the fire damaged frontage of the long abandoned hardware store next door. It was reported around that time by the accountant (who lived in one of the old ‘suite apartments’ facing the bay on the second floor) that “…street people were getting into the upper floors and walking around at night…” So, within the week all the cast iron downspouts were greased along their lengths and barbwire strung around them, prompted by the wholly rational assumption that this was the trespasser’s main means of entry (being, in reality, the only practical means). Needless to say, this didn’t stop the alleged ‘nightly intrusions’ so, lacking any other actionable solution, we further beefed up the ‘security barriers’ along the back alley to compensate…although again, the reports of late night ‘intrusions’ continued.

After a couple months or so, most of the preliminary structural elements of the remodel were in place, and so the task of ‘finishing’ this first stage commenced in earnest. Due partly to an ever-tightening budget, but also the distinct lack of readily-available period correct trim and other amenities, we were directed to source what might be needed from the abandoned halls and rooms of the top floors of the building. As the 3rd and 4th floors were largely empty, and the 5th also suffering the effects of water damage from a tar and membrane roof that had been leaking for decades (not to mention the gaps -often exceeding a foot- that could be seen in places on the top floor where the unreinforced brick walls had begun to slowly separate from the massive roof trusses), one could hardly fault this directive. Although by nature generally resistant to what I might coin “dis-preservation,” in this particular instance such “in-house salvage operations” managed to appease my dislike for wastefulness to such a degree that both ‘peeves’ simply cancelled each other out.

The salvage routine was as follows: once we had created a compelling need for trim, hardware and/or fixtures, I would collect the key to the back alley door(s), whereupon I would enter into the upper floors (being careful to close and lock the doors behind me), commence the collection of the different items in the amounts needed, stowing them in the hallway just inside the back entrance. Once the initial ‘gathering was finished, we would then relay these materials outside, and immediately back in through the basement before securing all the doors again. With another ‘salvage run’ completed, the materials could then be transferred at our leisure into the workspace. Neither of these back doors were left unlocked and unattended at any time during this process. Nor was the general public (or even most employees at that time) granted free access to these upper floors (and any who did access the 2nd floor generally did so through the café). This left little chance for miscommunication which might result in one of the access doors being left unsecured. Realize that other than the sound of pigeons cooing from their roosts along the backside of the building (where the washrooms and public bathrooms -due to their period specific need for a shared wetwall- resided), these upper floors were generally quite silent…one could hear cooing from the roosting birds reverberate the full length of the empty, windowless, block-spanning halls. When someone did enter on to the 2nd floor to access an apartment, office, or workspace there, it could easily be heard throughout the building: even in the furthest recesses of the 5th floor.

A second, more impactful foreshadowing came during one of my first scouting expeditions into these upper floors. Methodically working my way from the alley side of the building toward the viaduct, I eventually found myself at the main stairwell. Having then become further distracted by the crippled elevator adjacent, I loitered around a while longer before seeing a shut door nearby. As most doors I had passed while exploring the floor had been found ajar, it seemed noteworthy to find one still closed. Intrigued, I walked over and tried the knob, expecting it to be locked. When it turned easily, I automatically pushed the door open, and was subjected to an astounding sight: before me was a room that had been simply “frozen in time.” Unlike every other I had looked in, this room was still fully furnished; there was a made-bed against one wall, the expected armchair in the corner, a side-table, dresser, lamp, toiletries on the nightstand, radio…it was almost as if someone still lived there…except for the thick layer of dust that covered everything.

Intrigued, I stepped into the room, quickly crossing over to some cupboards that, when opened, revealed decades-old contents still lining the shelves. It was all so peculiar…and then I became quickly overwhelmed by a rising panic: all I could think of was to get out of there, as soon as my legs would take me. Next thing I knew, I was back outside the room and in the hall again. I stood there awhile with the door open, scanning the room from just outside, still marveling at its remarkable state of preservation, all while musing over the rather peculiar experience I just had. At some point I managed to compose myself, as my rational side could find little justification for my seeming over-reaction. Emboldened again (although a bit more cautious) I reentered the room, this time only to take inventory of its contents, but it wasn’t but a few seconds before every nerve in my body simultaneously received the command for “flight,” and I soon found myself out in the hallway again. Not needing to tempt fate a 3rd time, I closed the door, and mumble what apologies I deemed appropriate at the time to appease whatever guarded this “nostalgia room.” I never opened that door again.

Over time, it became somewhat routine going on these “seek and salvage missions,” although (not unlike walking through a forest now grown silent) one never quite got used to the feeling of always being watched. At times, I would swear that someone were lingering down the hall just out of sight, and many a time I found myself talking to someone I would have swore just walked up from behind and was watching me work, only to look back and realize there actually wasn’t anyone there. This could get particularly unsettling down some of the darker, more isolated halls, so I just made it a habit, whenever feeling especially nervous and on edge, of striking up a one sided conversation with whatever “presence” might be loitering about, if for no other reason than to ensure that my intentions be made known. Perhaps it goes without saying that although I’m not altogether sure it had any real effect, it did enable me to keep working, in spite of my “jitters.”

There was one occurrence, however, that was kind of the “final straw.” At some point in the course of my salvage operations, I had worked my way down the long, windowless hall on the south side of the building to the bayside ‘suite apartments: expansive, open spaces that equally divided the width of the building between them. Where they faced towards the bay (once a glorious view, no doubt, now obstructed by the soot covered concrete of the viaduct roughly 50’ away) large, wood-cased double windows dominated each wall, and one could imagine a time, only a century or so prior, when a gentleman-caller might have sat in modest finery overlooking this majestic view, seeing the distant shipyards of Blakely Harbor launching another world-class square-rig.

What awaited me there on this auspicious day, however, was an old fashioned wheelchair. “..cool…” I thought, and played around with it -wheeling up and down the hall for a few moments- before finally getting the bright idea to actually put it to work. I wheeled it down the long hall I was currently using for my hunter/gathering, and piled the lengths of kick board, crown molding, or whatever I was collecting that day upon it. Wheeling (instead of carrying) my treasure down to the back stairwell for the first time, I was impressed enough by how much easier this technique was that I stashed the chair in a discrete corner for use on my next visit. When I returned for another “materials run” some days later, I looked around for my ‘treasure dolly’ only to find it missing. Annoyed (and more than a little puzzled by this) I zigzagged down the halls until, approaching the front of the building, spotted it in the ‘suites.’ Relieved, I retrieved it with little additional thought, and set myself to my task: stripping trim, hardware, and/or fixtures, wheeling it all down the hall, unloading, and then stashing the chair again.

The next time I let myself in through the back-alley door, locked it behind me, trudged up to the stairs, turned to my discrete stash spot only to find the wheelchair missing (perhaps I was having a particularly bad day, or maybe something finally triggered deep in my subconscious) I immediately became enraged. I impatiently retraced the now familiar grid of hallways out of habit, but as I rounded that last corner, I already knew what I was going to find there: that seemingly willful wheelchair, sitting once again in pretty much the same place I had originally found it, as if entitled to its bayside view…and a slight shiver ran through me.

This bitter chill was not, however, enough to dilute my already soured mood: if anything, it just enhanced it. Leaving the chair ‘in situ’ I made my way back downstairs, locked the back door, and then breaking with routine (in a vain effort to calm myself), briskly strolled around the block and then in through the café, still fueled by salt and vinegar. Speaking loudly to no one (and everyone) in particular, I launched into a general rant regarding how disrespectful I felt it was for people to play ‘pranks’ on those actually trying to get ‘real work’ done…how they should ‘find something better to do’ with their time…and received in reply mostly blank stares. After a brief pause, most present just seemed to shrug it off and move on with their workday, but one of the employees, with whom I had become friends, pressed me for more details. As I began to explain myself, upon mentioning the ‘suite apartments’ he interrupted me saying “…oh, you mean the wheelchair? Yeah, leave that thing alone…don’t even mess with it…” He then continued, sharing his -and other’s- alleged experiences with the apparently accursed thing. Now, it might all have been part of a grandiose and well-conceived ruse, or one might chalk it up to a misunderstanding and/or miscommunication, but the impression I was left with was this:

…it somehow always found its way back to the bay window.

And so ends my first chronicling of haunted memories. One is, of course, ever at liberty to decide what one might make of such seemingly far-fetched tales. It would also be disingenuous of me not to concede at least some unintentional enhancement over time. Also, others who might have been present for (or perhaps even witness to) described events might have different recollections altogether. I’m not sure exactly how one might resolve these humble concessions as I’ve little actual means to remedy such disparities of any individual’s memory…wouldn’t I just as likely be burdened with yet another tale to relay that might also suffer the same potential for cognitive bias? Such divergence of experience might just be the truest burden of history. Regardless, when recalling such tales from memory, perhaps accuracy isn’t always the point, and an acceptable amount of enhanced ‘entertainment value’ is allowed? That said, I hope you found them, at very least, entertaining.

Real Tales and Tall Stories

A collection of first-person accounts that chronicle life changing and/or noteworthy events that helped influence the development of each author's unique identity.

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