Poltergeist Terrorizes Police

CHAPTER ONE: THE NIGHT SOMETHING MOVED MY CAR

In the mid-1990s, I was working second patrol shift in a small, quiet town, six in the evening until six in the morning. Nothing ever happened there at night. That was the unspoken rule of the place. By the time midnight rolled around, the entire town would be asleep, wrapped in stillness so complete it felt preserved. My routine rarely changed. I made my rounds slowly, checking doors and windows, peering down alleys, shining my flashlight into places that never gave me a reason to worry. The thrift store sat untouched, antiques and quilts frozen exactly where they’d been left. The barber shop was dark except for the soft glow of candy-striped glass by the door. The gas station was dim and empty. No movement. No noise. Just another calm night.

It was just after midnight when I finished my final round. I parked near the Masonic Lodge and the church, a quiet corner where I often stopped to complete paperwork before taking a short break. I had done this dozens of times before. I remember thinking nothing of it, pen moving across paper, radio silent, engine idling softly. Then, without warning, something hit my patrol car with tremendous force.

The impact was violent. My paperwork flew. My pen clattered to the floor. The entire car lurched sideways as if it had been struck by another vehicle at speed. My first thought was anger. Some drunk had just shattered the peace of this town and smashed into my cruiser. I looked up immediately, expecting to see headlights in my rearview mirror, but there were none. That didn’t make sense. I unbuckled, paused, and scanned outside to make sure it was safe before stepping out.

There was nothing there.

No other car. No driver. No engine sound fading into the distance. My patrol car sat several feet from where I had parked it, pushed away from the curb and partially into the road. I stood there, stunned, trying to process what I was seeing. I walked around the vehicle, expecting damage—scratches, dents, shattered glass—but there was nothing. Not a single mark. No tire tracks. No skid marks. No dust disturbed. The silence was overwhelming.

I checked again, slower this time. My cruiser had been moved nearly four feet sideways and several feet forward. Not rolled. Not nudged. Shifted. As if something had picked it up and set it down differently. I considered calling it in, but what would I report? There was no accident. No suspect. No evidence. Just an impossible result with no cause.

I stood there for several long seconds, unable to move, heart pounding. The realization settled in that whatever had hit my car wasn’t something I could identify or pursue. Eventually, I got back inside, hands shaking, and drove away. I never parked in that spot again.

I’ve told that story many times over the years, always the same way, because it never changes in my mind. I remember every detail. I don’t know if it was the location, the intersection, or simply the fact that I was sitting there too long, but whatever it was made its message clear. I was not welcome.

Years later, a coworker shared a story of his own—one that made mine feel almost tame. It happened on a weekend night when two officers were on duty together. Just before midnight, a van pulled up in front of the police station, the kind you’d expect to see in the late 1960s. A young couple stepped out, dressed head to toe like they’d walked straight out of another era. Peace signs. Fringe. Bell bottoms. Everything was perfect, almost too perfect. They explained politely that they were lost and needed directions to the next town. One officer drew them a simple map, handed it over, and watched them leave.

Seconds later, the younger officer realized they’d forgotten the paper. He grabbed it and rushed to the door before it even finished closing behind them. When he opened it, the couple and the van were gone. Completely gone. No sound. No movement. No time for them to have driven away. The pavement outside was undisturbed, dew settling evenly, no tire marks, no footprints, no trace they had ever been there at all.

Both officers stood there in silence, the younger one finally whispering the words neither of them wanted to say out loud. They had just witnessed something that did not follow the rules of time or space. Something that didn’t belong.

Between my experience and theirs, one thing became clear. That town held things it didn’t advertise. Things that didn’t care about badges or patrol cars or routine. And once you noticed them, once they noticed you, you didn’t forget. You just learned where not to stand, where not to park, and when to leave well enough alone.

When I was younger, my friends and I were inseparable—a strange, eclectic group of teenagers. There were Dungeons & Dragons nerds, jocks, martial artists, rich kids, and kids with more troubled pasts than we liked to admit. Somehow, despite our differences, we bonded over shared curiosity and a love for the strange.

One of our favorite nighttime activities was something we called TESSO—Tactical Environmental Scouting Operations. Basically, it was hide-and-seek taken to another level. Graveyards, parks, empty neighborhoods—we claimed them all as our playgrounds. Vermont in the 1980s was perfect for this sort of thing. Snow, woods, and a sense of safety made the wilderness thrilling but not dangerous.

One winter night, we decided to take TESSO to a frozen lake near Shelburn. It was bitterly cold, and the wind off the ice cut through our jackets like knives, but that only made the game feel more alive. We parked under the bright glow of a full moon and stepped onto the beach. The ice on the lake cracked and groaned, slapping against itself with the kind of sound that seemed almost alive. At first, we were mesmerized. The landscape, frozen and silvered by moonlight, felt otherworldly.

We hadn’t noticed the silence. Normally, the horses in the nearby barns would make noise at this hour. But now… nothing. The quiet was unnatural. We shrugged it off, figuring we were just too focused on our game.

At first, everything went as expected. The game began, laughter and whispers echoing across the ice. That night, we had invited a few girls from school to join us—partly to impress them, partly because they had begged to see what TESSO was all about. For a while, the night was magical, filled with excitement and bravado.

Then, one of the boys pointed to the edge of the woods and whispered, “Did you hear that?” Immediately, a sound came—crackling ice, maybe—but then it was followed by something else. A scream. A howl. Not a wolf. Not a human. Something big, something unnatural, rising from the woods where no one was hiding.

We froze. The girls clutched each other, terrified. Even the bravest among us, who had once ruled these woods like kings, felt a shiver crawl down our spines. Then the sound came again, louder this time, more piercing, more wrong. It was as if the creature itself had been waiting, and now it had announced our presence.

Panic took over. We scrambled for the cars. As we piled inside and locked the doors, the shaking began. The vehicles rattled violently as if a giant hand was rocking them side to side. The windows quivered. The ground itself seemed to hum with the creature’s presence. And then—a black blur raced across the edge of my vision, faster than anything I’d ever seen. The shaking stopped as abruptly as it had started.

After a minute, curiosity outweighed terror. We opened the doors and stepped out, scanning the snowy landscape. That’s when we saw it: a massive paw print, single, padded, with claw marks. Eight inches wide. Another print followed, eight feet away. The spacing, the size, the way the prints seemed to sprint toward the lake… this was no ordinary animal. Whatever it was, it was enormous.

We followed the tracks to the frozen lake and saw the impossible. The prints leapt over the icy stairs from the wall to the beach below, a 20-foot drop perfectly absorbed. It moved like it was flying, not walking. We searched the surrounding area, but the tracks vanished, dissolving into the snow as if erased by some invisible force.

Years later, we would joke about that night, calling it our run-in with a werewolf—or what the internet would later call a Dogman. But at the time, it was pure terror. We never understood what we saw. And sometimes, I wonder if we had somehow called it there, awakened something that shouldn’t have been disturbed.

I’m older now, armed in ways I wasn’t then, but the memory still lingers—the howl, the eyes, the shaking of the car, and the prints in the snow. Be watchful, be vigilant, and most of all… be ready.