May 2006 Page 27
by Shawn W.
I attended a college not too far from my home, but stayed in a dorm on campus from Monday until Friday. I'd drive home on weekends most of the time because I had friends in my home town that I'd spend time with on the weekends. One Sunday morning I was sleeping in late and my father had gotten up very early, as most country folk did in those days, and drove to check on his sister, who lived alone about five miles away. By 10:30 he was already on his way back home.
At that time I was just waking up and getting ready to go into the kitchen and fix myself some breakfast. As I was just about to come out of my room, my father burst in and asked, "How did you get back here so quick?" I had no idea what he was talking about and told him I'd just gotten out of bed. He insisted that I had nearly hit him head on about a mile from our house. He was approaching an intersection and a car exactly like mine, and driven by someone he clearly identified as me, made a very fast turn onto the road he was on.
He insisted it was me, and that I had nearly side-swiped him. Now, lest anyone think, "Oh, it was just a similar car," I should point out that it was definitely NOT a typical car for that time and place. I drove a black 1960 Studebaker Lark Coupe with gray primered front fenders and hood. There wasn't another one like it in the entire area, and probably not in the entire state. In addition, my father vehemently insisted it was ME behind the wheel.
My mother and I both continued to explain that I had been in bed and the Lark had been parked out in the yard under the old oak tree the whole time. I also pointed out that if it were only a mile from the house and I had been going the opposite direction, I could not have turned around and made it home ahead of him without passing him. He conceded that made sense, but still insisted on checking to see if my car's engine was warm. Of course, it wasn't.
The incident seemed to affect my father deeply. He was a very down-to-earth person, and not given to any flights of fantasy or wild imaginings. He felt that the incident meant something, but he didn't know what. Like many country folk, he spoke occasionally of "signs". He became convinced that the incident was a "sign" of some sort. Whatever the "sign" might have meant, it never became apparent to any of us. My father lived to the grand old age of 101, and died peacefully in his sleep in November of 2004. If dopplegangers are harbingers of death, that one took an awfully long time.
you have a paranormal tale to tell?