The Phantom Parka

I’ve always been a skeptic, even as a kid, but there are some things that just don’t have a logical explanation. This is one of them.

It was the day after Thanksgiving, and I was twelve, living in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. The snow was falling so hard it looked like a curtain of white, muffling the world outside. School was canceled, and I was stuck indoors, writing letters to my pen pals. My desk was by the window, facing the backyard, and I remember the heat from the register blasting against my legs as I scribbled away.

Suddenly, something outside caught my eye. I looked up and saw my bright orange and yellow rain jacket, the one with the reflective stripes, floating in the air right in the middle of the yard. It was as if someone invisible was wearing it, the arms outstretched, the hood flopping back and forth, and the whole thing bobbing up and down like it was dancing to some wild, unheard music. I froze. That jacket was in my closet. I knew it was, because I had hung it up that morning, still damp from yesterday’s rain.

I got up, my heart thumping, and tiptoed to my closet. I slid the door open slowly, and there it was, hanging right where I left it, the bright orange and yellow fabric glowing in the dim light. I touched it, felt the nylon, and then I ran back to the window. The jacket was still outside, still dancing. I pressed my face against the cold glass, trying to see if there was some trick of the light, but no, it was real. It was thrashing now, twists and spins, like a mad puppet.

Confusion turned to a deep, primal fear. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. I just watched as the jacket suddenly stopped, hung perfectly still for a moment, and then turned—yes, turned—to face the window. I could have sworn it was looking at me. Then, with a violent jerk, it flew up into the air and disappeared over the roof of the house.

I don’t remember much after that. I think I ran to my parents’ room, but they weren’t there. I found them in the living room, watching TV, and I tried to tell them what I saw, but the words came out all scrambled. They laughed it off, said it must have been a balloon or a kite, but I knew better. I never wore that jacket again. I threw it in the back of my closet and eventually donated it, but even now, decades later, when the snow falls thick and quiet, I sometimes catch a flash of orange and yellow in my peripheral vision, and I feel that same cold dread sinking into my bones.