There’s a small graveyard near my home in Michigan. About two years ago a group of my friends and I went ghost hunting there. It was a warm night, clear skies, and I was raring to catch a ghost on my friend’s camera or tape-recorder. Even a cell-phone video would do.
The cemetery is less than an acre, so it didn’t take long to scope out. We broke into groups of two and three and traversed the grounds. I wandered with a few people, changing from group to group. I felt restless.
Usually when we were ghost hunting, we cracked wise, but nobody was saying much.
A group near a tall monument, at least seven feet high and shrouded in vines, called us over. There seemed to be a cold-spot about the size and shape of a very tall man. I waved my hands through the air. It did feel a bit cooler, but that could have been my imagination.
Everyone began taking pictures, claiming they could see a figure in the digital photos.
I hung near the back of the group, not seeing anything. I still felt disquieted. I didn’t want to be here.
That was when a cold shock squeezed my hand, right between the web of flesh between my right thumb and forefinger. I cried out, yanking my hand away. It hurt. The cold radiated slowly off my hand, and I retreated towards the gate. “I’m out. Something grabbed me. I’m out.”
I was quickly followed by the rest of the party: not so much because of my encounter, but NOBODY wanted to be in there anymore.
It wasn’t until the morning the bruise showed up.
Deep in the meat of my hand: not a bad bruise, not bad enough to turn black and blue, but definitely there. Yellow and painful, right in the spot where I’d been grabbed by that cold hand.
I haven’t been back.