The previous owner talked frankly of the ghosts in the house when Ellen bought the place a few years ago. And while she experienced the odd perpetually cold spot in the house, or unexplained shadows, or movement out of the corner of her eye, her time with her ghosts could best be described as copacetic. The day she moved in she talked to them explaining she intended to share the house.

Maybe that did the trick. She’d never experienced anything “going bump” in the night and she also never felt alone in the house – in a good way; for her first house on her own after the divorce, she appreciated the company, even if she never actually saw them.

Until last night.

She sat bold upright in bed, torn from a sound sleep. There was a loud noise… she thought. But she wasn’t sure what could have made that no­—

BANG.

There it was! She looked at the clock. 1:35am. BANG! Again. It sounded like the chairs downstairs getting knocked over. BANG! That was it. But… who? And why?

Her bedroom door opened with a slam. The luminescent figure of an old woman floated in. Ellen knew her by feeling, even though she’d never seen her. She’d never seen her. Why now?

The woman looked at her and spoke clearly and concisely: “GET OUT!”

Startled as much by the roar of her words as she was by the unprecedented communication, Ellen did just as she was told. Leaping out of bed, she threw on the workout clothes she’d laid out for her morning gym trip, bolted past the ghost, down the stairs, past the knocked-over chairs grabbing her laptop and purse off the table, and threw open the door and hit the first step before she stopped.

In front of her the hillside across the street was a wall of flame rushing down towards her with the roar of a freight train. She immediately bolted to her car, turned the engine over and gunned it. Before she turned the corner, she looked back at the house. The fire rushed inevitably down the hill towards the house and Ellen saw the woman in the window upstairs watching her go.

This morning was an anxious rush as Jazz and I rushed to try to get her mom out of the mandatory evacuation zone in Rohnert Park. They downgraded the order by noon, and the immediate threat has faded for them. Now it’s Monday afternoon, and I’ve been crying off and on as pictures of the devastation of places I visit regularly have come in through Twitter, Facebook, the news… Already harrowing stories have come in about narrow escapes like the Safari West owner who defied evacuation and protected the exotic animals using hoses. Or the myriad tales of early morning knocks on the door and being told by CHP or sheriffs to leave RIGHT THEN, no time to even grab anything other than the clothes on their back. This story is in honor of everyone who experienced this very real fear and those who lost everything.

We’re a week into October! I don’t know about you, but I’m having a blast with these stories! If you like them, please feel free to sign up for updates on the right, or drop me a line!
Yesterday and today’s are both on the shorter side, but this week I’ll be stretching them out again. Thanks for reading!

Subject: Shawn Benning
Observer: Corey Evers, PhD.
Conditions: Subject is isolated in a soundproof faraday cage. The only objects in the room with him are the chair and table he is using. Observation is being made by remote camera and mic fixed in wall, as is the speaker subject receives instructions through.

Transcription:

October 3, 2017, 12:30pm. Building CP3, room 112

Observer: Good afternoon, Mr. Benning. How are you feeling today? Were you able to find the place okay?

Subject: I’m doing well, thanks. And, yes, I found the place alright.

O: Are you ready to get started?

S: Sure. Where do you want me to go?

O: Let’s start with something close by. In the adjacent room we’ve set cards on a table. Are you able to tell what pictures are on those cards?

S: Okay… let me see… [Shawn folds his hands in front of him on the table and closes his eyes in apparent concentration. His head nods forward onto his hands limply. Moments later he raises his head but speaks with his eyes still closed] The left card has a picture of a lion… the middle card has a tractor… and the rightmost card has a… what is that called? Oil pump? Derrick? Yeah, Oil Derrick. [Subject is correct on both order and content of the cards. Note: room is also unlit]

O: Thank you. Are you able to go again?

S: [opens his eyes] I am, yes.

O: Can you go further.

S: Just tell me where to go!

O: You’ve been to the facility in California, correct?

S: Yes, I was there once.

O: The building number you will be looking for is MJ12. Inside you’re looking for room 223. There are cards on the table in that room. Can you tell me what is pictured on the cards?

S: Let me try… [Shawn assumes the same position as before. As before, his head lolls forward on his hands. This time he remains inert for 4 minutes 37 seconds. When he speaks it is from his head-on-hands position in a flat voice] red balloon… bicycle… violin. [subject is accurate again. subject remains in trance-like state]

O: Are you able to astral project again? [Shawn nods barely perceptibly]

S: You are spelling my name wrong.

O: Excuse me?

S: On your notes there. It’s S-E-A-N. [I am alone in the control booth, or so I thought.]

A short one today — this is my take on a classic apocryphal story.

Julie hung up the phone and set it deliberately in the cup holder and smiled sadly. This ritual — removing the distraction of the phone — had been drilled into her by her mom from the first time she sat in a car to drive. Mom, who hadn’t been around to remind her for… what was it? Five years next month? Julie shook her head. Feels like yesterday and it feels like a lifetime ago. She sighed, then shook off the sadness — she was, after all, late, so this was a lousy time to sentimentalize.
Checked her mirrors (twice), signaled and pulled out into traffic. She had programmed destination — a new Beginning Piano student on the west side — during the call to let them know she would be a little late. The automated voice told her to turn left onto Laurel, but she knew this part and paid it little attention. Ten minutes later (and five minutes late, she thought) she had threaded her way through the surface streets and obediently turned onto Getchell Street.
The setting sun glared fiercely off the ocean at the end of the road and Julie reached for her sunglasses on the passenger seat. She started scanning the addresses of the houses as she attempted to open her sunglasses with one hand. The plastic frames slipped from her distracted fingers and fell to the floor. She looked forward, then reached down for her sunglasses.
“JULIE! STOP!” Her mom’s voice rang out clear and strident as a bell, and Julie slammed both feet on the brake pedal through sheer reflex, dragging the car to a near-instant stop.
She looked up and not a foot from the front of her bumper saw the shoulders, head, and panic-filled eyes of a four year old boy clutching the red ball he had chased into the street.