The Bethlehem Jogger
By J. D. Arnold

Forethought

As a fiction writer, the odds are against me that anyone will actually believe me when I put my personal supernatural experiences into the form of an essay. I ask that you proceed with an open mind, and if I am not convincing enough, I implore you to check with the owner of this sight as he knows of my reputation and credibility. If all else fails, I will ask that you keep this in mind; just because I am a known fiction writer does not mean it is impossible to believe I couldn’t have a supernatural experience. The only problem with the story that is to follow is the gulf of time. These events occurred nearly ten years ago, and I will do my best as memory serves me to accurately detail the strange things, which occurred between September of 1998 and March of 1999.

Sometime in the late summer of 1998, I had overheard someone in a convenience store talking to the clerk behind the counter about a local legend hereafter known as “The Bethlehem Jogger”. I listened with intrigue as the man continued to explain.

“He’s in Bethlehem. He used to jog every day. One day he was hit by a car and pronounced dead on the scene. But every now and then, people report seeing the ghost of a jogger. He runs through the fields, and out into the road and then disappears.”

“Have you seen this for yourself’? I asked, breaking in to the conversation.

“No, but I’ve heard a lot of stories over the years.” He explained.

The stranger knew nothing else. A naturally curious person I went to work immediately to see what I could learn about this.

There is nothing more frustrating that trying to uncover the facts of a New England small town story like this one. And in particular, this was harder than usual. I was told several versions of the story, and “eye witnesses”, so called, had personal experiences where they had chased the jogger with their own car. Each resident had his or her own version of how the Jogger died, and how he continued to manifest himself after his death. He affected each person’s life in a different way, so to speak.

After composting all accounts into one, and checking some town records, which confirmed the death of a man in Bethlehem Ct in 1984, and weeding out the nonsense from the facts, I drew up this scenario: The Jogger lived in Bethlehem I will not disclose his name out of respect for the dead, and his family who survived him.. He worked second shift. His shift ended sometime between ten and Eleven PM; he would come home and go for a Jog. Just before Eleven Thirty, while crossing the road, he was struck by a vehicle, which may or may not have fled the scene. I could never find out for sure. He was pronounced dead on the scene (I spoke with one of the EMT's that responded to the call). However, not long after his death, people in the area began to see the Jogger on occasion, just before Eleven- thirty, usually near a gate that led to a field. Go up to Bethlehem around Eleven I was told, hang around and see what happens. So I decided to do that. Throughout the course of a six month investigation, I would return many times. I will detail the highlights. These experiences did not happen in consecutive intervals. There were many nights in Bethlehem where nothing of importance happened.

The First Night

It was an unseasonably cool night for September. I decided to commandeer my friend Lisa, who was interested in the supernatural. I turned my Mercury onto the road where the sightings took place. “Where does he appear”? Lisa asked.

“Supposedly near a gate but then I can’t be sure. I’ve heard twenty five different versions,” I said looking around. I spotted a gate and parked the car in a little pull off a little further. Glancing at my watch it was about ten after eleven. Lisa and I waited near the gate in silence. At twenty-five after eleven, we stood motionless. By eleven-forty five, absolutely nothing happened, and we left the scene.

The Manifestation

I wasn’t convinced on that first night, that the entire story was a farce. I returned once or twice each week for about three weeks with no results. Photography refused to yield any supernatural evidence as well. Were we in the correct area on Woodcreek road? No. I returned the first week of October with a crew of five people. Placing us apart at intervals of about five hundred feet. Jason, who was approximately one quarter of a mile from the gate thought to be the sight of the spot where the Jogger appears, experienced something, but what he couldn’t be sure of. He had seen something in his peripheral vision at about twenty eight after eleven, and showed me the exact spot.

I returned the next night with Robert, and Mike, two of the five who had been with me the night before. This particular night would be the strangest experience we had had. This time I had car trouble. The Mercury I owned at the time was over twenty years old, and had its problems. Approaching the Jogger, the car began to shimmy, and lose power. The headlights would dim, and then brighten again. Almost to the place where Jason had said was where we would find the Jogger, the engine stumbled and died. I could not start the car again.

“Well, how the hell do we get out of this”? Mike Asked.

“I don’t know.” I was trying to determine how far of a walk it would be to anywhere that there might be a phone.

Robert broke in, “Why not wait for the Jogger, and then we’ll figure out what to do.” Good Idea. We sat down on the hood of the immobilized car and lit some cigarettes. Eleven — thirty came and went with no results.

“Yeah.” I commented. “Jason knows what he’s talking about”.

For the hell of it I tried to start the car. The engine turned over, and instantly started, apparently running fine. Robert and Mike got in, and we were on our way out of Bethlehem.

At that time, I had had an amateur radio in the car, which was usually on. It began to crackle and make a humming sound. It was unusual to pick up another station this far into the country. A voice began to come in, distant at first and then louder but it was impossible to understand what it was saying.

“Ask who that is and what’s his location.” Mike said.

I picked up the microphone and queried; “QSK, QSK (Inquiry code). This is Bethlehem Connecticut. Do you copy?” There was a response but still too much static. I repeated “Bethlehem Connecticut here, do you read me?” The static stopped, and the voice came in as clear as if the signal was from a mile away. A mans voice, it spoke slowly and monotone. I still remember word for word the broadcast; “I tried, and I tried. I couldn’t think of anything funny to do. I couldn’t think of anything funny to say. So I fixed the car.” The radio fell silent again.

Sometime early in the spring of 1999, on a balmy night, I returned with another friend, Eric. We parked by the spot. Sat on the trunk of the car and waited. Eric was a skeptic, and to him this was a joke. I looked at my watch. Eleven Twenty six. “He doesn’t get here early does he”? Eric joked. Eleven Twenty Seven. The rustling of leaves to the north could be heard coming through the woods toward the road, getting closer. We sat motionless and waited. Eric and I saw the same thing at the same time. An erect shadow, black, about four feet tall ran out into the road. It stopped just before the yellow line and looked at us. The Jogger did not have a face exactly, but he did have two holes for eyes, as if one were to cut two holes in a piece of paper. They were not actually eyes, just holes where there would be eyes. That is the best I can explain it. The Jogger looked at us for a few seconds, and continued on. Before he reached the other side of the road, he collapsed into a mass on the pavement and faded away. Most likely the place where the automobile would have ended his life.

Final thought

I did not return after that. I had seen the Bethlehem Jogger. He was real, and my curiosity was satisfied. I considered the matter closed. I can not disclose the exact location of the sightings out of liability, and respect for the residents who love in that area. However if you know where this location is, and you investigate for yourself, please be respectful of the people who live in the area, and do not make any excess noise.

J. D. Arnold is the pen name of a local writer.
He lives in Naugatuck, Ct.