(Post #26) - A Close Call: When Peace and Quiet Turned into a Warning
After the whole ghostly escapade, I was more than happy to settle back into a routine at John’s place in Langford. The dogs, who had been on high alert at the log house, seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. They quickly adjusted to suburban life, and I was just as happy to trade eerie noises for the sound of kids playing and birds chirping.
Life at John’s was calm and predictable. No weird intercom static, no rogue heaters, and certainly no flying food processor lids. The dogs and I fell into a blissful routine of morning walks, lazy afternoons, and cozy evenings. Everything was so… normal. Turns out, I needed “normal” more than I thought.
But, of course, my life couldn’t stay drama-free for long.
One quiet Sunday morning around 7 AM, I decided to take the dogs for an early walk. The two-lane residential road had one section flanked by thick forest, part of a regional park. While the trails in the park offered a shortcut back to John’s, walking along that part of the road always triggered my city-girl instincts. I found myself picking up the pace, probably due to my track record with creepy situations.
As we walked along, planning to enter the park, a car came from behind and slowed down, coming to a full stop. My heart rate immediately doubled. The driver watched me through his rearview mirror. Maybe he missed the entrance to the park. Or maybe he wanted directions. Well, buddy, you’ve picked the wrong person to ask.
The car pulled over to the side and parked. I continued walking. Out stepped a man in his early thirties, casually dressed, holding a water bottle. He crossed the road, walking toward me, eyes locked straight ahead—no greeting, no eye contact. I glanced at my "fearsome guard dogs" who were busy sniffing leaves like this was a casual Sunday stroll. Thanks, girls.
As he got closer, he reached out his hand, palm up, for the bigger dog, Katie Mae, to sniff. Still no conversation. No "what a cute dog" or "good morning." Just... silence. I yanked the leashes, muttering to the dogs, "Come on, let’s go." They ignored me. Typical.
As we walked on, he continued walking away from us and down the street. At that point I debated whether to head back on the main road or brave the park trail. I glanced behind me. He was quite a distance down the road. Maybe I’d overreacted. I headed for the park entrance and walked down its short road that came out to a parking lot, where the trails began.
But just as I reached the trail, a dog barked in the distance. I hesitated because I was thinking that another person may have been coming down the trail with their dog and I knew that the girls would react in a loud way. Something told me to turn around and go back, and that’s when I saw him again—right behind me. How had he gotten there so fast? And why was he following me?
His eyes stayed fixed on the dogs, still silent, and I could feel the tension. In that moment, my instincts took over. I turned away and started to walk back to the main road. As I was walking I was pointing to the right and called into the forest, “Hey! I’m over here! Yeah, I’ll meet you at the road!” I wasn’t talking to anyone real, of course. Just hoping to trick him into thinking I wasn’t alone.
I calmly walked toward the road, and once there, I decided to be near his car and pretend to take photos of the dogs, while secretly aiming at his car’s license plate. I made a show of smiling and laughing, like I was starring in “Dogs in the Wild: Langford Edition.” I then walked quickly back to John's using the residential streets, not looking back. When I got there, I told him everything, and he was just as shocked as I was.
Later that day, I went to the local police station to report the incident. The receptionist wrote down the license plate number from my photo, and that evening, a constable called me. He took my statement and said I was smart in letting them know what happened and the information will be placed into their system. He said they checked the plate and the car was a rental from Richmond, BC. “That’s on the mainland, which makes this even more suspicious” he said, his tone matching my unease. He mentioned there were CCTV cameras on the street, and they’d review the footage. It brought some comfort, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that if it weren’t for that distant bark, I might’ve gone into the trail... and who knows what would’ve happened.
From then on, our walks were more “midday, lots of people around” and less “early morning, solo strolls.”
Despite the scare, I reminded myself that these things could happen anywhere. My house-sitting adventures were filled with stories—many that would eventually make great testimonials for my co-hosting business (which I will pursue in the near future). Still, I was ready for new challenges—preferably without haunted houses or strange men lurking in the woods.
John’s place had become a sanctuary, and I was grateful to him once again for being my safety net. After those four weeks, I returned the dogs to their owners on Pender Island. They didn’t ask any questions about why I left their log home, but I could tell they were thankful I took such good care of their pets. Still, my heart sank when I heard they cried after I drove off. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who had bonded during our time together.
With the spooky chapter officially closed, I was ready to move on to my next house-sitting gig—an eight-year-old husky named Koda, living in a townhouse in Nanaimo. This time, I was promised a nice, suburban experience. Boring? Probably. And I couldn’t be more excited.
Isolated Stretch of the Road
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