I don’t believe in ghosts, but I saw one once.

It was by the dawn’s earliest light one autumn morning on Willets Hill in Birmingham, Michigan, the small, suburban town where I grew up. I was 12, or thereabouts, and I had a paper route, delivering the Detroit Free Press.

The darkness didn’t bother me. I was used to that. Michigan is at the far western end of the Eastern Time zone. We had endless summer days and long, dark winter mornings. I was spooked, however, before I ever saw the phantom.

I was using a bicycle on my route, carrying the papers in a heavy canvas saddlebags. I’m not sure it was my bicycle; I don’t remember having a bike with a seat rack to support saddlebags. Maybe that’s why I was pushing it, rather than riding.

In any case, as I was heading down Greenwood Street to Willets, I began to hear a strange and eerie noise. It sounded like one of those African thumb pianos, with the little strips of steel over a gourd, only it wasn’t at all melodic. It was rhythmic in an odd, off-kilter way, but not tuneful. It was freaking me out.

I could tell that it was coming from close by, but it seemed to follow me as I walked along. When I stopped, the music stopped. That tipped me off that it must be the bike, but it still took me a while to figure out that the canvas straps from the bag were hitting against the spokes. I probably wouldn’t have minded the sound so much, knowing what caused it, but I tied the straps out of the way all the same.

Willets Street was the biggest hill in my neighborhood, and alongside the road, uphill off the side, was a large, vacant house owned by the town, with a grassy lawn that sloped nearly all the way down to the road. That backyard served as one of our local sledding hills. There was a chain link fence at the bottom, to stop us from flying out into the road. I glanced up toward the house as I trudged up the hill that morning, and was surprised to see someone standing at the top of the hill, just behind the house. It looked like a grown man, standing arms akimbo.

It was unusual for me to see anyone out and about at that hour, and I was just starting to wonder about it when something else struck me. The man didn’t look right. It was still a bit dark out, but the figure was darker. It was pitch dark, dark enough to stand out. It looked like a silhouette, but three-dimensional.

The music had been disconcerting. This was terrifying.

I stood with my mouth agape. I wanted to turn and run, but my feet would not move. I wanted to scream, but couldn’t make a whimper.

As I stood rooted to the sidewalk, the figure stepped forward, and began running down the hill, not directly toward me, but straight to the end of the yard. He put his hands on the top and vaulted the fence without breaking stride, stepped into the road, and vanished.

I stood there for a while more, and eventually managed a whimper. My knees where shaking, and I remember feeling a little faint. I don’t know how I found the will to continue on my route, and I don’t remember what I thought about it at the time. I didn’t believe my own eyes, and I still don’t.

Sometimes I think I must have dreamed it, and later got the dream mixed up with reality.  I remember the bit with the bicycle spokes very clearly, though, and I’m pretty sure that was real. I don’t think I really saw a ghost, but I don’t know what else to call it.

In any case, that was a long time ago, and I’ve never seen one since.