(Photo: Ian Jackson, The Black Rider)

As it’s Halloween, I thought I’d share a (true!) story: The Creepiest Thing That Happened To Me This Year.

I was driving north of Toronto late on a Tuesday night, the cusp of spring. Tattered clouds, the ground still raw with patches of snow glowing in the moonlight. Due to my itinerant state at the time—crashing on sofas in the city, cramping my parents’ style in Fenelon Falls—it was a drive I’d been doing a lot. Usually in the wee, wee hours.

Coast to Coast was on the radio: “Unusual, Unexplained, Unstoppable!” as the promo goes. It’s a syndicated American talk show hosted by George Noory that traffics in the paranormal and conspiracy theories. UFOs, shadow people, the Illuminati, prophecies (eg. Nostradamus, 2012 & the Mayan calendar), psychics, cryptozoology—all sorts of good, mind-bending stuff. Anything goes. Some of the guest-perts are legitimate scientists, others genuine oddballs and fringe-culture misfits.

It always makes for good late night driving. Alone on the country roads, headlamps glowing against the gathering dark. It’s spooky, it’s absurd, it’s freaking hilarious, especially during call-in segments.

That night’s guest was a mathematician that had written a book about chance, randomness and probability. I can’t recall anything he said exactly, but he was citing examples of freak events that would defy logistical likelihoods.

As I listened semi-intently, mind drifting now & again, my beams caught a raccoon sprinting ahead of me by the side of the road. I lessened my speed, but the raccoon suddenly crossed into my path. I swerved, but not enough. I felt my rear passenger side tire roll right over him.

I pulled over and saw he was fully dead. I used my hockey stick to paddle him and his bits over onto the gravel shoulder.

It was the first time in my life I had ever hit an animal while driving. Countless hours driving country & suburban roads over twenty plus years, here and abroad. Even at prime moose-impact hours like dusk in Newfoundland. The surprise of it all gave me a rush of adrenaline. I got back in the car and continued on. George and his guest were now taking calls from listeners, each of them sharing bizarro coincidences

Five minutes later, I hit another raccoon. The scenario repeated itself almost exactly. Except this time it was the front of the car that did the carnage. I pulled over but didn’t get out. It was just too weird. Never in how many years then twice in five minutes! I was suddenly piloting the Roadkill Express.

George was about to take another listener’s call. I turned off the radio and drove the rest of the way in silence.

(Above picture is from The Black Rider, a theatrical collaboration by Robert Wilson, Tom Waits and William Burroughs, currently playing the Tarragon Theatre in Toronto. See it before it closes on November 14. It’s weird and wonderful.)