Ghost Pilot

Ghosts

Ghost Pilot

On a fateful day while visiting Dartmouth, my sister took me on a tour of the old World War I fortifications. As part, we walked through a beautiful graveyard. The inscriptions were so old on the weather-worn tombstones that I could not make out to whom they belonged. My inner dialogue wondered, “Who were these people, and what were their lives like?”

In an instant, I felt that I was not alone. The hair on the back of my neck rose. I felt scared like a deer caught in headlights and for a moment I could neither speak nor move.

Saying nothing to my sister, I walked out of the graveyard. She followed and we continued sightseeing. On the way back to her apartment, we picked up some lamb and the fixings for dinner.

We stayed up after dinner and watched a movie. As a GP working in Torquay, she went to bed earlier than me in preparation for her work the next day. I was on holiday and opted to watch The Canterbury Tales.

It was on turning off the television and settling into my futon bed that I experienced the same feeling of terror that I had encountered at the cemetery.

Frozen in my fear, I thought to myself “Please don’t hurt me. Just let me be.” I recited my Buddhist prayers and closed my eyes.

I opened my eyes to find myself in a world of yesteryear. People were busy. Women wore long skirts and the men wore uniforms.

I could not quite place the era but soon realized that I was a fighter pilot. Possibly World War I.

All sound was absent. In silence, I took my plane out on a mission and experienced the hit that took the plane down… down... down.

In the blink of an eye, the scene changed.

I was now standing next to a tall pilot. He had a broad forehead enhanced by a receding hairline. He resembled a typical Englishman of the time in his mid to late twenties, clean-shaven. His eyes were sad.

We were standing at the side of the table, looking at him, the same pilot, recovering with a white cloth bandage wrapped around his forehead. With a crutch, he had walked into what appeared to be a church or schoolhouse. Here there were rows full of people like me, recovering from various war injuries. He picked up a pen with shaky fingers and tried to write.

He spoke.

With these words, I will be whole.

Both the ghost pilot and I were carried into the pilot’s body.

I opened my eyes. This time it was for real. It was morning. I blinked several times to remember. The year was 2001. I was on the futon with the sun streaming in through the window.

Wake up! My alarm didn’t go off! You are going to be late for your bus.

My sister was frantically trying to wake me. Reassured that I was awake, she went into the kitchen to make her lunch and a snack for me.

I don’t remember getting dressed or brushing my teeth. She rushed me to the bus that would take me to my next destination, Birmingham. I did not have the opportunity to tell her about my strange experience.

To this day, I have not told her.

Moral of the story: Don’t ask for stories in graveyards.

Ever since that day, when encountering the places where dead people lie, I have closed my mind to every curiosity.