It was just past 10 PM one summer night in 1993, when my husband, our neighbor, and I found ourselves paused in conversation under the sprawling sky of Brampton, Ontario. We were casually discussing plans to build a fence, unaware that the night held something altogether remarkable for us to witness.
Suddenly, our eyes were drawn upward, where a silent, slow-moving object floated gracefully above, heading southeast. Its shape was unmistakably triangular, a vast expanse like that of the Goodyear blimp, but unlike anything familiar. Around its edges were about 20 lights, flashing in a fascinating synchronized pattern — red, green, and white — dazzling against the dark canvas of night.
The craft moved with a calm consistency, its motion steady and deliberate; there was no erratic darting, no engine noise to disrupt the peaceful summer air. It was as if it hovered on a current invisible to us, gliding silently over our heads for about three minutes before it drifted away into the distance, fading from view.
The silence was what unsettled us most — an immense presence floating noiselessly, its eerie lights blinking rhythmically, neither threatening nor completely understandable. To this day, the memory lingers vividly in our minds, a spectral visitation that has not been repeated, yet often recalled in our conversations.
What exactly we saw that night remains a mystery, a strange, beautiful enigma floating in the sky over Brampton. It was an encounter that transcended explanation, inviting awe and a quiet, lingering wonder that only the night sky itself can conjure.