Whirling Island

I gazed at the banner perched above the multi-paneled chalkboard in the three-hundred-seat auditorium. “Welcome to the 1991 Michigan State University Historical Symposium.”

A woman with bushy gray hair, faint wrinkles, and giant wireframe glasses stood at the center of the stage.

“Welcome, everyone!” My professor, Dr. Moore, boomed and grinned. “It’s nice that we have a large turnout, don’t let all of the empty seats fool you. There are seventy people in this auditorium, twenty more than last year’s event. Allow me to introduce the research that was performed by my class of ten talented students. All of them have signed up for History 871 as part of an elective credit for a Master’s in History.

“The studies performed by the students chronicle pieces of Michigan’s past. This is our end-of-the-year project, where each student takes their favorite of three essays written during the semester and continues with further research to share at this presentation. Thank you for coming, and I hope you enjoy the lectures from our finest.”

The auditorium echoed with claps. Bruce, sitting in the row in front of me, took the stage first, setting up the projector as Dr. Moore dimmed the lights. A spotlight flicked on. Bruce adjusted his tie and wiped the sweat off his forehead, but it was still glimmering. He stood at the podium and smiled nervously.

“Hello,” he peeped.

“Hello,” the crowd droned in reply, my voice included.

“‘You’re just not the same as you used to be. I don’t even know who you are anymore.’ Yes, those are quotes you might commonly hear from a relationship that has hit a bumpy road or from two people on the precipice of divorce. But it’s also a phrase that has been said to people who have visited the Upper Peninsula’s Whirling Island.” Bruce clicked the button on the projector, and a map of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula was displayed on the screen.

“Here, you can see it circled in red at the top. That’s Whirling Island. A few miles northeast of Marquette. What's there exactly? Well, a picturesque beach and some nature walks.”

The slides jumped forward through photographs of cream-colored sands and thick forests of birch trees neighboring tiny rivers.

“These are pictures taken by my cousin’s friend, Logan, who visited Whirling Island. As you can see, it doesn’t look like anything out of the ordinary. But according to my cousin, Logan hasn't been the same and refuses to talk about his weeklong trip.”

A new image flashed on the screen. It was a newspaper with the headline: Folklore of Michigan featuring the Dogman. An illustration of a slender werewolf in a clearing of trees with glowing, beady eyes was on the front.

“Here is an issue from a Mackinac Island publication. I’m sure many of you find it ridiculous that I’m using a magazine printed for the central purpose of entertainment as part of my presentation -‘what’s the historical significance here?’

“It’s speculated that legends are spread through societal discourse, and not just because people like to exchange horror stories. Around the time the werewolf gained prominence, western civilization was going through a great awakening. We infer the beast became so popular because it represented the evil sins associated with animalistic behavior. See, these stories become staples in society because they’re the antithesis of a cultural phenomenon.

“So maybe the Dogman is just another version of the werewolf. But perhaps if we look closer, we might find that hunting’s popularity in Michigan has led to the inspiration of this creature.

“But I feel like Whirling Island isn't part of a societal response. In the article that’s still up on the screen, there is a section on Whirling Island. I bought this magazine as a child when my family took a vacation to Mackinac. They publish this magazine every year and rarely deviate from the classics like the Dogman, The Light of Paulding, and The Singing Sands of Bete Grise.”

My ears perked up because my essay earlier in the semester was on The Singing Sands of Bete Grise. Although I was already leaning my head forward with my eyes bulging.

“Each Michigan folklore is given its own section where people talk about their experience. Many of them are fabricated, but I have reason to believe the Whirling Island entry is not. Even though they release this magazine every year, they had only mentioned Whirling Island in the issue that I bought when I was twelve years old. They’ve never written about it again. Allow me to read the passage.

The slide flipped to a zoomed-in piece of the article, and Bruce read along.

“John, who is an avid reader of ours, visited the mysterious Whirling Island, northeast of Marquette. According to the people that live in the northern part of the Upper Peninsula, Whirling Island is not a place you want to visit. When townsfolk are asked why they usually respond with, ‘It’s just the natural law of things, you don’t spit into the wind, and you don’t go to Whirling Island.’ still, John paid a visit to this unusual location.

“When he returned after his weeklong stay, our editors and writers couldn’t get in touch with him, even though he agreed to write a story. A friend of his reached out to our magazine and told us that he ‘Hasn’t been the same since.’ When we interviewed his friend, they said, ‘John is hard to talk to, the guy used to be so jovial and always went out to the bar on weekends. Nowadays, you’re lucky if he returns your call. Apparently, he’s still going to work but doesn’t spend time with friends or coworkers anymore. If you manage to talk to him, you’ll only get short replies from a man in a dour mood. Don’t even think about bringing up his trip to Whirling Island because he’ll leave the conversation.’

“John still hasn’t returned any of our calls. It’s unknown what he experienced during his visit, but we think it’s safe to say that no one should travel or camp on Whirling Island. Instead, numerous other places are lovely to visit in the Upper Peninsula.”

The following slide skipped to an image of a helicopter.

“I don’t want to disappoint anyone listening to my presentation, but no, I did not visit Whirling Island. I’m a little superstitious, so it’s unsettling, but learning about its characteristics is captivating. It’s not very often you get the chance to study a place that can only be accessed via helicopter.

“There is only one person who lives on the island. Unfortunately, I do not have a picture of him, but he lives there year-round in a tiny house on a beach. I found this out because Whirling Island is a campsite you can visit, but it was hard to find in Michigan’s park registry. It wasn’t listed among all of the other places. In fact, it was a footnote at the bottom of a blank page, as if it was commonly left out of pamphlets.”

Bruce took another few minutes talking about the surrounding land’s history and further detailed his cousin’s friend’s behavior. Meanwhile, I couldn’t stop myself from going down the rabbit hole daydream of all of the possibilities that make Whirling Island what it is. Is it some sort of thin place where spirits have an easier time slipping through? Is it just some story that’s been passed down from generation to generation to scare people? Is it one of those spots where the magnetic poles just hit you differently? I snapped out of my thoughts when I heard the applause.

***

“Bruce! I’ve never heard of Whirling Island, great presentation.” I beamed, approaching him after the event out in the hall.

“Thanks, man, glad you enjoyed it. I was worried Dr. Moore wouldn’t let me talk about it. Y’know, at first she didn’t want me to, but when I showed her the supplemental information, she changed her mind.” Bruce chuckled.

“So, what do you think? Do you really believe in these stories or what?”

The corner of his lip curled up. “Honestly, with everything I learned, yeah, I believe in them. I think something weird is going on at Whirling Island. All those famous mysteries I write off, but that one has a lot of apprehension from others. There must be a reason for it, right?”

“See, the thing is, I don’t really buy into it.” I shrugged. “Not that I’m knocking your presentation. It was wonderful. But like you said, it’s folklore. I’m sure people may have seen something that scared them, but I think it was all in their heads. As a thrill-seeker and introvert, it sounds like a dream to stay a week on that island.”

Bruce snickered incredulously and cocked an eyebrow. “Uh. Raymond, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Ah c’mon, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like anyone dies when they visit. So how do you set up a flight?”

“I think you’d have to find a travel agency.”

“Perfect.” I patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll start calling around to see what I can find.”

His eyebrow was still frozen up. “You’re seriously going to do this?”

“Why not? I’m interested in stuff like this and to be able to experience it firsthand is a no-brainer.”

“Let me know what you uncover. I’m curious if you can find anyone who can help you get there. For my research, I tried calling around to travel agencies but got the runaround. So, good luck, I guess.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.”

The following afternoon I pulled out the Yellow Pages and called every travel agency under the sun in Michigan.

Johnson Travel: Whirling island? Never heard of it. Where is it located?

New Life Travel: Whirling Island sounds familiar, but I don’t think anyone on staff could help you with that request.

Michigan Tours: Whirling Island, you mean that spooky legend? Sorry, I wish I could help you. If you want to see the Upper Peninsula, may I recommend a Tahquamenon Falls trip?

Then there was Vacations in Michigan.

“Hello, you’ve reached Vacations in Michigan. My name’s Dan. How can I help you today?”

“Hi Dan, my name is Raymond, and I’m wondering if you booked any trips to Whirling Island in the Upper Peninsula?” I asked with my eyes closed and my fist pressed against my forehead.

“Oh-uh, I’d love to help you, but unfortunately, we don’t make any bookings with Whirling Island anymore.”

I scrambled to straighten my posture, gripping my pen and stabbing it on the paper. “So you’re familiar with it? Whirling Island, yes? Can you please go into detail why you don’t make bookings there anymore?”

“Uh, sure, customers never seem satisfied with their trip, and we have to pull a few strings. I’m not sure if it’s because of the rumors about the island, but apparently, it’s not a place you want to go anyway. While I have you on the line, I would be happy to recommend multiple other options that I’m sure would satisfy your needs. St. Martin is a great island in the Upper Peninsula.”

“No thanks, I’m only interested in Whirling Island. What if I paid extra for you to facilitate a trip for me? I’ve done a lot of research about the island, so I’m dying to go there.”

I heard a faint sigh on the other end of the phone. “You seem like a good guy, and the other people I sent were good folks too, but they just seem different afterward. All of them.”

“What way? How are they different? How many people have you sent over there?” My mouth had a motor.

“I’d say I’ve sent about five over. They usually come in all chatty and personable, seeking some type of thrill. They know the mystery of the island, and they want to see it themselves. And I’m telling you that they come back and ignore my follow-up calls, or they’ve come to my office to cuss me out, which has happened twice. I’ve never seen anything like it. Those two people that screamed all the obscenities had the most outraged look in their eyes. Still makes me unsettled to this day, so, sorry, Raymond. I can’t do it for you.”

“Do you have a manager? Or someone I could talk to about this?”

I heard a heavy exhale. “I’ll be right back. Please stay on the line.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” I stood up and paced back-and-forth within the fifteen-foot length of the phone cord.

“Excuse me, Raymond?” Dan said.

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

“I just talked to the supervisor, and he wants you to come in. Since we already have a rapport, let’s meet together. Tell me a day and time that works for you to come to the office, and I’d be happy to help you out.”

***

At Michigan State, I lived in a one-bedroom apartment off-campus in East Lansing. I hopped in my ’83 Camaro and took a road trip to Vacations in Michigan. They were located in Traverse city, up near the top of the mitten. It was a three-hour cruise, but I didn’t mind it much. I was all smiles. My path was just a two-lane highway with trees coming into full bloom, arching over the road. No matter which way I took, it was the scenic route. Rolling hills, lakes, and vast farmland all culminated into a peaceful trip up north.

When I pulled into the Vacations in Michigan lot, my heart skipped a beat, and a grin spread across my face. Strolling in, the bell above the door jingled through the office, which was no larger than a three-bedroom apartment. A telephone rang in the other room, and a fax machine funneled out a piece of paper on a table in front of me. Next to it was a small cubed fish tank with a handful of goldfish swirling around.

A man with graying brown hair, a receding hairline, and suspenders approached me from the side. “Welcome to Vacations in Michigan. I’m Dan. How can I help you today?” He beamed.

“How perfect. My name’s Raymond. We talked over the phone just yesterday.”

“Ah, yes, Raymond. I remember.” Dan winced for a microsecond but recovered the retail smile. “Right this way, sir.”

He ushered me into an office on the left. There was just enough room for a chair, a modest-sized corner desk, and a set of two chairs across.

“Please, have a seat. Let’s go over some of these details for your trip,” Dan said.

“I have to say, I’m really impressed that you changed your mind to help me out with this. It was hard finding a travel agency that even knew what I was talking about.”

Dan feigned a snicker. “Well, you’re lucky that the travel agency business is starting to take a little bit of a downturn. We are hurting for customers, and it’s not just the people in our office, but everywhere you go.”

“Fortunately for you, it would be impossible to try and book a one-week trip to Whirling Island anywhere else,” I chuckled.

“Fortunately for me, you’re going to have to pay a little extra since it’s a lot of work to reestablish our relationship with Whirling Island and the helicopter company. I hope that’s alright with you?” Dan’s smile faded.

“Hey, I’m already in debt with my student loans. I’m happy to pay however much is needed. As long as we don’t hit the thousands, I’m good.” My shoulders bounced.

Dan paused and smiled. “Are you sure I can’t do anything to convince you to go somewhere else?”

“I want to write a paper about this place. It’s hard to get there, and there’s a spooky legend surrounding it. Sounds like a perfect recipe for some high-quality non-fiction. Whether I publish it for money or use it for grad school, this is a business trip. So yes, I have to go. If I ever need to travel anywhere else, I’ll book with you guys.” I winked.

“I’m telling you, you’re not all that different from the others.” He sighed. “What day would you like to depart?”

“If it’s possible, I’d like to go on June third, and then I’d like to get picked up on June tenth at noon from the island. Is that how it works? Would that suffice?”

Dan scribbled in his notebook as I relayed the information.

“I think that will be okay, they don’t get many visitors anymore, but I’ll be in touch with them. When people have gone to Whirling Island in the past, they stay in a shack right along the beach.”

“Can I bring my own tent if I don’t want to stay in the shack? And I’ll just camp outside?”

Dan rolled his eyes but caught himself in the middle of it and returned his cheery smile. “You can certainly try, but I know that the island’s caretaker is pretty strict about people staying in the housing provided. I think he’s worried that something might get damaged.”

“No problem, I don’t want to give the caretaker any trouble during my stay. So you’ll let me know about the trip and if you can get a hold of the helicopter company?”

“Sure thing, and you’ll pay me for the ticket once I have it reserved. So I’ll call you once it’s ready. You’re going to want to bring your own groceries for the week. Inside the shack, there is a stove, a refrigerator, and the basic amenities you would expect from a studio apartment. Any questions?”

“None, just let me know when the ticket is available.” I grinned.

“You bet, pleasure doing business with you.” Dan shook my hand firmly.

***

A week later, I was in my apartment reading a book on Michigan Folktales around 10 PM. My eyelids grew heavy, and the words were blurring together.

I stood outside in the middle of a raging monsoon with rain flying sideways, whipping my face and hair backward. Lightning crawled over the hives of dark clouds. Thunder screamed above my head, making my hairs stand on end. It had a high pitch wail instead of its usual boom. The pitch rang out-

-So loud that I shot up from the couch, my heart thumping in my neck and sweat coating my head. Another high pitch ring filled my apartment. I scrambled off the sofa and leaped towards the kitchen, and picked up the phone.

“Sorry, I was in the middle of sleeping. It’s 11 PM for chrissakes.” I rubbed my eyes.

“Raymond, I have some good news. Sorry for calling so late. It’s been a long day at the office.”

“I’m sorry, who is this?”

“I meant to call sooner. This is Dan with Vacations in Michigan. The helicopter company got back with me, the flight is all set for June third. Come pick up the flight ticket whenever you’re ready. It will cost you around $500 and another $300 to stay the week on the island. Any questions?”

“No, none at all. This is great news. Thanks for calling, Dan. Just wish you called me during the day.” I chuckled.

“Sorry about that. Have a good night, oh- one other thing, the guy at the helicopter company wanted me to relay a message to you.”

“What’s that?” I yawned.

“They said, ‘Is he sure he really wants to go? I don’t even recommend going, and I live nearby.’ do with that what you will. Goodnight, Raymond.”

***

I skipped out of Vacations in Michigan with my airfare ticket in my bag. I sped up to Marquette, where the helicopter hangar was. I had memorized the routes in case something happened to my map. Everything was highlighted just as I needed. For most of the ride, I was blaring my Pixies cassette, yelling along to the lyrics.

“Where is my mind, where is my mind… Way out in the water see it swimmin’.” I chuckled.

Pulling up into the helicopter hangar, I parked my car in an empty lot with only one other vehicle. The air’s silence gave me goosebumps; no birds, bugs, cars, wind, or anything. For a moment, I thought I was in a dream.

I approached the giant white shed where the helicopter stood but headed towards the office at the side. Knocking once, the door swung open, and an older gentleman whose sunglasses covered half of his face stared at me. We stood there for an uncomfortable second of silence.

“Hi, my name is Raymond. I’m the one that’s going to Whirling Island.”

“Ticket?” he grunted.

“Yeah, I have it right here,” I reached into my back pocket and yanked it out.

His fingers bird-pecked it out of my hand, and he stared at me for a few seconds. My eyes were desperately trying to get a glimpse of his expression behind his massive sunglasses. Still, they were too dark for me to see anything. He kept his head tilted up at me.

“What’re you waitin’ for?” he grumbled while marching ahead. I had to dodge him.

I’m not even sure if he looked at the ticket.

The helicopter blades spun like the arms of a supercharged clock. In the cockpit, I yelled over the swiping roar, “This is my first time in a helicopter!”

But the pilot didn’t respond. The helicopter floated up and tilted forward. My legs couldn’t stop bouncing, and I couldn’t keep my jaw closed. We were flying over fields of trees until we reached the monstrous Lake Superior. I was hoping to get some pictures of the land, but a thick fog northeast made that impossible.

My heart sputtered. The fog took a dark shade of purple as if we were going into the heart of a storm cloud. I couldn’t see anything in front of us, and I’m not sure the pilot could either, but he was unfazed. His calm demeanor was the only thing keeping me from screaming at the top of my lungs. Amidst the helicopter’s constant buzzing and whirring, I could’ve sworn I heard faint high-pitch laughter. I thought it was something with the chopper itself, but it was infrequent and ethereal.

My blood ran cold.

A squealing cackle came from the fog.

I thought time was slowing down, but the helicopter blades’ high-speed cycle remained the same.

Something else felt amiss.

Was it my ears popping from the elevation? Was it the dryness of my mouth? Was my nose was struggling for air?

The cessation of the fog was immediate. An off switch flipped on. We came out the other end hovering over a modest island, the shape of a jagged eye, with thick trees and a bay on one side and a green field. A red-circled ‘H’ stared at us.

The second we landed on the helipad, I jumped out of the cockpit with my bag slumped over my shoulders.

“Thank you! See you on the tenth!” I slammed the door shut, and the pilot took off as soon as I was an inch away from the blade radius. I scowled at him as he took off and muttered to myself, “Nice meeting you too.”

Following the dirt path towards the forest on the horizon, I stopped. Panic spread like blood through my body. An old man I hadn’t seen appeared a few yards in front of me.

His eyes were wide open, and his mouth was a flat crack. His hair and beard were white and flowing. I thought he was a medieval mirage, but he was still there after blinking multiple times.

I took a few steps forward before my head twitched, and I reminded myself to smile and wave.

“Hello!” I called out.

He tucked his chin in, and he tilted his head back up in the slowest nod I had ever seen.

“Are you the caretaker of the island?”

He nodded again.

Stepping up to him, I was careful to stay a few feet away.

“Hello.” His voice was hoarse and gravelly.

“Hi, I’m the guy who’s going to be staying here for a week. My name is Raymond. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Okay.” he turned towards the forest and hobbled ahead with the help of a cane.

“Excuse me, but what’s your name?”

He continued limping forward. “Ron.”

“Is it okay if I ask you some questions, Ron?”

“Maybe.”

I gulped. “Have you heard of any, uh, I don’t know, weirdness happening with people who come here and leave?”

“No.”

I studied his face for any microexpression that would clue me in on a lie, but his demeanor hadn’t changed since I first saw him.

“Do you like living here?” I smiled.

“You sure talk a lot.”

I bit my tongue the rest of the walk.

We entered the forest, and the wind started to kick up. The branches and leaves seemed to be pointing at us as we stepped along the dirt path. It was as if the island was staring at me. Or was I just being paranoid? I fixed my eyes on the route in front of us.

We approached a clearing and entered the bay, which made my jaw drop. The beach expanded as wide as a football stadium. There were two shacks, one on the right and one to the left.

The old man paused his gait, and I set my bags down to catch my breath. “Where will I be staying?”

He raised his arm over to the shack on the right side of the bay. I picked up my bags back up.

“Wow, this view is terrific. I can’t wait, thank you for-”

“Come to my house first,” he stated, turning towards the left, inching forward.

“Absolutely.”

We rounded the beach’s bend, wading through the cream-colored sand, which felt like pillows at my feet. Stepping into his worn-down shack, I studied Ron’s quarters. He lived in a studio-style space. It had nothing but the basics: a stove, a refrigerator, a twin-bed, a bathroom that jutted out into a separate cube, and a calendar of Michigan birds with X’s drawn over each previous day.

As I scanned across the walls, something caught my eye in the room on his dresser: a fish tank. There were twenty of them, a whole school. Each one was no larger than a few inches. They had an exotic purple color to their scales that glowed like neon.

Goosebumps popped all over my skin. The fish were all staring at me. I took a step to the left, and their heads followed. I took a step to the right, their heads still focused on me. They had lifeless black doll-eyes.

“Where did you get those fish? I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“I’ve had ’em forever.” The old man was a statue, staring at me wide-eyed.

“Yeah, but where did you get them?”

“I’ve had ’em forever.”

“Don’t like talkin’ much, do you?” I smirked.

His face was tattooed stoic. “Come here if you need anything.”

“That it? Nothing else you have to say?” I stared at him, wanting to glance back at the fish, but I couldn’t.

“Come back June tenth at sunrise. I’ll take you to the landing. You can swim, but don’t go too far out. Weather calls for clear skies. Any questions?”

“Not really.” I shrugged and spun around. “See you later. Nice meeting you.” I waved as I stepped out the door.

I couldn’t stop thinking about those fish on the walk to my shack. The island was silent, with no waves crashing on the shore and no more movement from any wind in the trees. It was like traveling through a photograph of a sunny day.

My little shack looked identical to Ron’s, except the roof had a black patch on it like it had been burned. Studying it further, everything seemed sturdy. No holes or anything. For a moment, I suspected it was black paint on top, but it was burnt. I should ask Ron about that next time I see him. Who knows if he’d even answer.

I made some oatmeal on the stove for lunch and spent the rest of my time trying to relax on the beach, but the stillness of the air kept my shoulders tense. Swimming out into the water was pleasant, a perfect refreshing temperature for a warm late-spring day.

There wasn’t much to do on the island except read, write, and swim. I checked my watch more than usual, time felt slower than normal, but it’s all relative, right?

I spent the evening with a few candles lit, reading, The Upper Peninsula: A History. There was nothing in it that even mentioned Whirling Island. What if… the island didn’t even exist, and I’m not technically here right now? I snickered. Blowing out the candles, I shut my eyes and tried going to bed, which was near impossible since my room was boiling hot.

After hours of tossing and turning, I must have fallen asleep because harsh sunlight burned me awake. The first night over and done with, still felt perfectly normal. I put on some clothes, a hat, and sunscreen and went exploring for the day.

Around my neck dangled my Canon camera, and in my backpack, I had my Polaroid. I wanted crisp photos of the island as well as immediate ones. It was an all-day hike. Combing through the forest, I took photographs of the trees. Even though they were regular birches, the branches pointed at me like the previous day. Every turn and path I took, the breeze followed.

That’s where I spent the least of my time.

Many of the pictures I took were landscape shots of the beach, the field, and out in the water, where I snapped the whole bay. The heat was brutal, but the lake was refreshing. Scanning below, I couldn’t find any fish or aquatic life through the clear waters. Maybe it’s further out.

The entire time I couldn’t believe how quiet it was. I also found it strange that Ron never made it out of the house.

When my Polaroid photos developed, I analyzed them over and over again. My heart fell to my stomach and launched back up in my throat, thumping.

Ron was staring at me with wide-open eyes in every picture.

In the middle of the forest, out on the beach, standing in the still waters, Ron was in each one even though I swear I never saw him. Yellow discolored circles peppered the sky. Maybe there was something wrong with the film?

I burned the photographs over the candlelight and tried falling asleep in the oven that was my bedroom.

Tiny taps came from the roof. The night had been silent, but more patter developed. I looked out my window into an abyss. I could barely see raindrops; mountainous shadow clouds obscured the moon. I took a step outside to feel the refreshing droplets. It was nearly fifteen degrees cooler.

Turning to the left, my whole body shivered.

Ron’s shack had glowing amethyst rays spilling out the windows. I did a double-take, and the light was off. In the back of my mind, a little voice was telling me I was being watched. Something was silently observing me from up above.

Then I heard an invasive whisper in my head.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

I rushed back into my cabin and jumped on the bed, taking a series of deep breaths. Closing my eyes, I was hoping the rain would soothe my newfound anxiety.

Armies of raindrops pounded the top of the roof paired with hungry thunder. Lightning flickered. Storms were a lullaby for me, but not tonight. Sleep was going to be impossible, especially since the rain was impersonating a jackhammer. I poked my head against the window, and I swear I saw violet bolts of lightning zigzag across colossal clouds as thunder roared.

An explosion blasted the ceiling open, and I sprang out of bed. A lightning bolt ripped off the roof, accompanied by flames immediately extinguished by buckets of rain. My whole room was flooding. I was soaked as I leaped off my bed and darted outside.

I sprinted towards Ron’s cabin on the other side of the beach, but I couldn't even see it. The abundant rainfall in front of me obscured everything. I tried looking at the lake, but it was pitch black. Then the lightning illuminated the sky.

My skin jumped out of my body.

The clouds were all shaped like fish. Glaring at me with beady yellow eyes. Millions of them. All watching me run across the beach in my boxers.

Your mind is playing tricks on you, Raymond. Your mind is playing tricks on you. Your mind is playing tricks on you.

I couldn’t get to Ron’s cabin fast enough. When I reached his front door, I throttled the wood until my fists bled.

“Ron! Ron! I need you!” I screamed, spraying water from my lips with each word.

The door flew open. I dropped my jaw and stumbled backward.

Ron stood in front of me, chest out and lips open. Purple light beaconed out of his eyes and mouth, followed by a curdled screech. Those damn fish in his tank watched me.

A gale-force shot me out of the doorway and into the lake’s shallow bed, landing on my back in liquid sand, drenched. I sat back up and wiped my eyes from all of the water. Ron gazed at me with his violet headlights. He moved closer, but he wasn’t walking. Ron remained perfectly still.

I was the one that moved.

A spiritual force strung me forward. I had no control, I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. My vision was anchored ahead as I hovered towards Ron.

I tried to yell and scream for help, but nothing came out of my mouth. Floating closer to Ron, I entered the purple beacon that shined from his mouth. My field of vision was drowned by the violet light, and the next thing I knew, I was on the other side of his room.

Ron was standing to my right; the door was still open. The rain stopped. I witnessed myself walking back through the door inside Ron’s shack.

What the hell?

“Enjoying your stay?” Ron said to me as I watched the conversation like a security camera.

“Very much.” I nodded, even though I had no control over my response.

“Good.” Ron bowed. “We’ll take you home tomorrow.”

“Good.” I gazed back at Ron with lifeless glazed over eyes.

“Your cabin is restored. Enjoy the rest of your night.” Ron limped over to his bed while my body robotically stepped out the door.

Ron put his face up to me, and his eyes were nearly bulging out of their sockets. “Welcome to the family, Raymond.” His lips cracked upward. “Make friends with the other souls, why don’t you?”

Bubbles floated by my eyes as the rest of the school swam past me.