Paranormal Investigator Magazine Issue I | Page 49

My Hatman History

Chapter One
I’m not sure exactly when my own somewhat
strained relationship with “my” Hatman began.
Maybe it was when I was a tiny child and suffered night terrors, telling my mother about “The
man” in my room. (Something I did not remember but about which my mother discussed with
my younger sister).
As I wrote this book the memories, before
stored in a safe place in my head, came rushing
forward. The lost memories of my toddler-hood
breached the surface and washed over me.
My homes have always had a presence of sorts.
Is it paranormal or normal, who could dare to
conjecture on at this late date? My days of being
a toddler are long past, and memory is a fickle friend after all these years. We always had a
very sturdy respect for the supernatural in our
home. My mother being “that woman” people
went to with “That sort of problem”. Naturally
her children became indoctrinated in the field,
almost as a matter of course.
As a scientifically based paranormal investigator I’m positive. Not a probability or a possibility.
Positive I could debunk many of my childhood
experiences. I’m positive I could figure out many
of Mom’s experiences and those of our neighbors’. This isn’t ego. It’s years of trial and error and saving what appears to help, and filing
away the things that don’t.
That being said, sometimes if it looks like a
duck, and walks like a duck it’s likely going too
taste good with orange sauce. The many cases I’ve worked, both as an older teen and as a
middle-aged man have taught me one thing. No
matter how much I know, no matter how much
I’ve learned or how many people I try to help, no
matter how my position in the paranormal community may point me out as experienced or a
go-to person for help, my most important lesson
is that I know nothing.
I hope through my years of this field that I’ve kept
my motives clean. I want to be the “good guy”.
I want the feeling of being “Under Dog”, and to

know that when I leave a home the inhabitants
are happier than when I got there. I hope my
reasons for this haven’t undergone any changes. That I haven’t allowed ego to creep in. I want
to believe this, but I’m sure that I’m wrong, at
least on occasion.
Infallible I’m not. Pure of heart I wish to be.
Helpful, I pray to be.
In the year 1979, I was jogging home to a small
town from a less small town uncaring about the
time, light, or road conditions. My gait was unfailing in the cool evening in late September.
The tree frogs and crickets were fighting a war
of sound to see who could make more noise
that night.
At age 19 a healthy young man is invincible.
Nothing shook me, as I was now legally a grown
up, so step back and watch my dust. In perfect
physical condition, helping to teach gymnastics
at the Y.M.C.A., and practicing martial arts and
progressing as fast as my finely tuned physique
could absorb the information.
Eat what I like and my 19-year-old cast iron
stomach turned it all into muscle. Steel under
my skin from hours of weight lifting, and a smile
on my face even when I was asleep.  I was well
over half way home on old Rt. 453 with no traffic
and no train to break the effect of the tree frog
concert.
My fearless world was about to take a new turn.
As I approached the bridge near “The Cut”, I
saw someone standing on the other side, just
looking. He wore a hat and long coat, and as
far as I could tell was all in black. “No worries”,
I thought. “I’ll say Hi and keep jogging.”  But
as I got closer, he got da