note from franksolich: this of course is a work of fiction, although about 35% of it is stuff that really happened in real life at one time or another. It’s dedicated to the disheartened big guy, with the hopes it lifts his spirits for the discouragements and disappointments that lie ahead.
franksolich goes ghost-hunting; bumps into the big guy and wife. The other night, some hours after I’d gotten undressed and gone to bed, say around 3:00 a.m., I woke up with a start, sensing something was wrong.
The windows in the bedroom were wide open, as it was fairly warm, in the low 50s, and the slatted blinds could be seen in the darkness slightly swaying because of the wind.
There appeared to be an indistinct little white cloud, or fog, hovering in the air near one of the windows.
Curious as to why some sort of climatic natural phenomenon would be inside the house, I leaped out of bed hoping to inspect it up close, but as I got to it, it rose in the air, and what with the high ceilings here, out of my reach. It hovered, and slowly began drifting out into the living room.
It was about the size of a shoe.
I cautiously followed it out to the living room, where the four cats were slumbering in utter tranquility.
Damn cats, I thought; fine watch-dogs you make. There’s this thing here, and you don’t care.
As it hovered around near the ceiling of the living room like a miniature blimp overhead, I took care to look out the enormous windows of the living and dining rooms, to see if something untoward was happening out there too.
I had shut off the yard-light earlier, as I hadn’t wanted it to attract middle-of-the-night unexpected visitors. The moon was rising over the Jungfrau-like William Rivers Pitt, and lots of stars in the sky. Nothing in the front yard or on the road. On the north side, the meadow stretched emptily two miles towards the highway. On the south side, the branches of the trees in the walnut grove slowly shifted in the breeze.
The phenomenon drifted into the kitchen, and then out the open back door.
I peered out the back door, looking towards the river a couple of hundred yards distant; no one was there, and so I felt confident dashing outdoors as the phenomenon drifted over the deck.
It floated in a circle, a little higher than I could reach.
It was almost as if it was mocking me, staying just out of reach like that.
The phenomenon danced around over the back yard, at times darting towards the river but then darting back my direction.
Then it circled around to the south side of the house, into the grove of walnut trees.
Good, I thought; with the trees there being the way they are, it’d get caught in the branches, and I could see what it was.
But just as the stars penetrated the leaved branches, the phenomenon itself seemed to float through these barriers, the cloud separating into parts and then merging again on the other side.
It drifted near the shed where the neighbor and the property caretaker keep their tools and agricultural vehicles, and then further afield past the picnic tables under trees in the front yard, and the base of the William Rivers Pitt about a city-block-and-a-half away from the house.
Nervous because someone might show up, I stayed close to the house, simply watching it.
Seeing that I had no intention of chasing it all over the yard, the phenomenon turned, and began floating back towards the house.
I started chasing it again as it hovered around the northeastern corner of the house, and then went around.
Upon turning that corner myself, I slipped and fell.
Looking up, I saw the profiles of two incredible bulks, wearing capes and deerstalker hats, and carrying magnifying glasses and other ghost-detecting and -collecting paraphernalia.
Startled at the sight, I leaped up and out of their way; the man after all looked to be about two and a half times my own weight, even if a little shorter than I. If he slipped and fell on me, alas for franksolich.
The male was in his mid-50s, sporting a grungy beard and a neck too thick for his collar; he also looked as if he had a bad back. The woman was about the same age, shorter, but doughy and solid, her face permanently etched into a scowl.
“Who are you?†I asked as I backed away.
“We’re from Bellevue,†the big guy said; “we’re ghost-catchers, and there appears to be a ghost out here.â€
“Oh,†I said.
The big guy extended his hand. “I’m running for city council. Send me money.â€
The doughy sour-faced woman looked at me, her countenance frozen into stern disapproval.
“Why are you running around without any clothes on?†she finally asked.
