One summer night in Calgary, I found myself sitting outside with a friend, enjoying the quiet darkness when my attention was suddenly drawn to a strange sight behind me. Over my left shoulder, I noticed an unusual formation of bright white lights that I couldn’t immediately comprehend. There were perhaps six to ten lights arranged in a pattern unlike anything I’d ever seen.
The object moved slowly, shifting left and right with a grace that defied explanation. I tried to determine the number of shapes but was uncertain—this was something entirely new to me. I glanced at my friend to see if he was witnessing the same phenomenon, and indeed, he was just as captivated.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, the lights vanished, leaving me with a shiver that crept under my skin. The experience was so profound, so chilling, that from that moment on, I avoided stepping outside after dark.
The presence I encountered that night, lasting just about five seconds, has haunted me ever since. I was once a night bartender, used to the city’s pulsating energy at midnight, but after that unsettling encounter, I quit my job and never looked back. That silent, slow-moving formation of lights over Calgary was unlike any ordinary aircraft or natural occurrence—it was something else entirely. And in that brief moment, my perception of the night and what might lurk beyond it was forever altered.