Over the years, the internet has seen its fair share of spooky images. From possible Bigfoot sightings to UFOs in the sky to ghosts haunting the windows of old houses, there’s no shortage of creepy photos.
While many of these images are often easily explained, usually just by camera blur or clever Photoshop work, there are some that seem to defy all logic. Take the case of runner Kay Borleis, who discovered something disturbing in a photo she took during her 100-mile run through the Hawaiian rainforest.
In 2019, Kay participated in the Hawaiian Ultra Running Team’s Trail 100-Mile Endurance Run, which involved completing five laps of a 20-mile loop through dense jungle. She was accompanied by her friend Cassie, who acted as a pacemaker and captured moments during her run.
A photo showing Kay walking along a muddy trail took a surprising turn when she later noticed a strange detail in the background. In a post on Reddit, Kay shared: “My Pacer took this photo. Look closely at the figure to the left of my head. We didn’t see anyone pass by and there were no statues on the trail. It’s NOT photoshopped; this is real”.
When you zoom in on the image, you can see a dark figure in tattered clothing who appears to be watching Kay as he runs. However, Kay insisted that no one was there at the time.
She continued: “According to Hawaiian legend, the ghosts of ancient warriors known as Night Marchers roam the island. Described as ‘murderous shadows’, they haunt the land as the spirits of past fighters and heroes”.
Kay continued her research and found that legends say that anyone who looks at the Night Marchers could face a terrible fate. To avoid this, mortals are advised to lie down in submission to show respect, which could potentially spare them harm.
“Luckily we didn’t encounter the Night Marcher”, she said with relief. Have you ever spotted something unexpected in one of your photos? Share your experiences in the comments!
Buttons and Memories
I miss my mom. I used to push all the buttons just as she would walk down the aisle, a mischievous glint in my eye. Each time we visited the grocery store, I’d dash ahead, my small fingers dancing over the colorful buttons of the self-checkout machine. With each beep, she’d turn around, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You little rascal! One day, you’re going to break it!” she’d say, shaking her head, but her smile would give her away. Those moments were filled with laughter and light, the kind of memories that could brighten even the dullest days.
Since her passing, the grocery store has become a hollow place for me. I walk through, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft whoosh, and I feel the weight of the emptiness settle in my chest. The shelves filled with brightly packaged goods seem to mock my solitude. I can still hear her voice, echoing in my mind, reminding me to pick up my favorite snacks or to try a new recipe. I wander through the aisles, my heart heavy, searching for a piece of her in every corner.
I remember how she would linger by the produce, inspecting the apples with care, always choosing the shiniest ones. “The best things in life are worth taking a moment to choose,” she would say, her hands gently brushing over the fruit. Now, I find myself standing there, staring at the apples, unable to choose. They all seem dull and lifeless without her touch.
The self-checkout machines are still there, their buttons waiting to be pressed, but they feel like a cruel reminder of what I’ve lost. I can’t bring myself to push them anymore. The last time I stood in front of one, the memories flooded back. I could almost hear her laughter, feel her presence beside me. But it was just a memory, fleeting and painful.
Every week, I return to the store, hoping that somehow it will feel different, that I’ll find a way to connect with her again. But the aisles remain unchanged, their fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a persistent reminder of my loneliness. I see other families laughing and chatting, and I feel like an outsider looking in on a world that no longer includes me.
One evening, as I walked past the cereal aisle, I spotted a box of her favorite brand. It was decorated with bright colors and cheerful characters, a stark contrast to the heaviness in my heart. I hesitated for a moment, then reached out and grabbed it, a sudden rush of nostalgia washing over me. I could almost see her standing beside me, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “Let’s get it! We can make our special breakfast tomorrow!”
With the box cradled in my arms, I made my way to the checkout. I felt a warmth spreading through me, the kind of warmth that comes from cherished memories. But as I stood there, scanning the items and watching the screen flash numbers, I realized that I was alone. The laughter we shared, the spontaneous dance parties in the kitchen, all of it felt like a distant dream.
When I got home, I placed the box on the kitchen counter, a bittersweet smile tugging at my lips. I thought about making pancakes, just like we used to, the kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla and maple syrup. I reached for my phone to call her, to share the news, but my heart sank as reality set in. There would be no more calls, no more laughter echoing through the house.
That night, I sat in the dark, the box of cereal beside me, feeling the weight of my grief settle in. I poured myself a bowl, the sound of the cereal hitting the milk breaking the silence. As I took the first bite, tears streamed down my cheeks. Each crunch reminded me of the moments we had shared, and I felt an ache in my chest for the warmth of her presence.
“I miss you, Mom,” I whispered into the stillness of the room. “I wish I could press all the buttons just one more time, hear you laugh, feel your hand in mine.”
But the buttons would remain untouched, just as the aisles of the grocery store would remain silent, a reflection of the emptiness I felt inside. And in that moment, I realized that while the world continued to move forward, I would always carry her with me, a bittersweet reminder of the love that once filled my life.
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