The Ghost Story Of The Regulars

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This is Mike Voilo of Lexicon Valley.

And I'm Bob Garfield.

Are you one of those people who sometimes uses words?

Do you communicate or acquire information with, you know,

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So, join us on Lexicon Valley to true over the history,

culture, and many mysteries of English.

Plus, some ice cracks.

Find us on one of those apps where people listen to podcasts.

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He asked me to what?

I replied.

He smiled and pulled back a chair with his cane

and tapped the seat with it.

His thin lits parted and he said to the regular's club.

His eyebrows went up and down like doing a little dance

and the bespectacle dies beneath and twinkled.

I'd been stopping at Morning Bell for coffee every morning

for a little over a month, same time every Wednesday.

I'd noticed the two tables pushed together and surrounded

by a group of older gentlemen all beyond retirement age.

They were all there every time I ordered my 16 ounce

of maricano, but I'd never really paid any mind or attention.

Apparently, they must have noticed me, though.

Oh, you'd fit right in with them.

Said Christie, the barista.

Half-joking, I asked her, loudly enough,

for the old guys to hear is this a club or an occupation.

Oh, it's an occupation, for sure.

Christie replied at E.Covolium.

The old guys went into an uproar.

Hey, we're paying customers.

I've been coming here since before you were born in sweetheart.

Nobody's ever asked us to leave, have they?

Christie smiled at them all.

I paid for my coffee and wandered toward the seat

which should be designated for me.

They usually took my coffee out to my car

and drove to work where I would sit in the parking lot

and lessened to the news while I sipped until I felt properly electric

so I could survive my office,

where the most interesting thing was the contrast

between the gray, cubicle walls

and the fluorescent lights above, like heaven and hell.

I suppose I could stay out of this no for a bit longer.

I said, sliding into the seat offering me.

So, let me guess, this is the real city council, right?

Don't you know it?

Said the man who'd invited me over.

Who pated me in the back with a hand

that had once been very strong?

The name's Stan Kessinger.

Alan, I replied.

Alan Persa.

Are you already retired, Alan?

Asked a thin, students looking man across from me.

Oh, get out of here, Wesley said another.

He's not even four B yet, I bet.

I smiled.

I'm 42 and no, I'm a dead analyst.

They still need that with all of today's advertisements.

Asked Wesley, the thin man.

I smirked, shrugged and said,

well, that's sort of up for debate, I guess.

But they keep on paying me, so.

This professional ambivalence seemed to resonate

with a few of the men who raised their coffers

and took jaw-vilsips.

Mine was still too hot.

A man standing outside the group walked away.

I felt bad for a second, thinking maybe I'd accidentally

stolen his seat.

I expected him to pull up a chair from another table,

but he walked by past the tables near us

and moved out of my line of sight.

As others began to introduce themselves,

I began to wonder if the standing man was just shy.

I said, so you guys come here just about every day, right?

Don't you ever run out of things to talk about?

Half last stand.

We probably got 500 years of live experience between us all.

It's going to be a long, long time

before we run out of subjects.

Here here, said a man exactly

was his opposite in size, demeared and positioned at the table.

His name was Trevor.

There was also Henry, Neil, James, Byron, Johnny, Gordon,

and a couple of others whose names unfortunately escaped me.

So what was today's subject before I came in, I asked?

The jovial group suddenly quieted.

The men all looked amongst each other, but none at me.

My coffee smelt strong and rich,

and I wandered so badly to sip it in that brief,

uncomfortable moment, but alas, it was still too hot.

He knew, looking back,

the awkward silence probably only lasted three seconds,

even though it felt much longer.

Stan broke it.

How do you, Alan, feel about ghosts?

Ghosts?

I asked, surprised.

Stan nodded.

I looked around the table at all the expectant faces

looking back at me.

Wesley said, telling ghost stories was our late friend

Bruce's favorite tradition around Christmas time.

He passed away just over a week ago.

This will be our first Christmas without him,

but Stan here suggested we tell some tales of our own.

Turns out some of us have some good ones

said the man named Johnny.

He looked much worse for where than many of his comrades,

yet when I started his face,

I believed him to actually be one of the groups younger members.

He either lived a hard life or lived life hard.

Stan said, before I interrupted him to invite you into our fall,

Johnny was about to tell a story of his own.

That's right, said Johnny.

Now, unless anyone else has something to add,

I'll get started.

Go ahead, said Stan.

Now that the introductions had ceased,

a man standing in the back graterant,

crossing his arms, and leaning on the wall.

I wanted to say something offered to get him a chair.

But since Johnny seemed somewhat irritated

about being interrupted before,

I dared not speak up after he began again.

He all know how I used to like to go out on the water

early before dawn.

On a good day, I could catch enough crappy

or blugal for dinner before heading out to work for the day.

I'm talking about back when I lived on the lake, of course.

I just wandered down to the dock first thing in the morning,

hop in the boat, and zip out to one of the good spots.

One morning, back at that time, I might have been 40,

but only barely, I stepped out my front door into a club.

It got foggy up there on the lake all the time,

but this day it rested so heavy all around.

It felt like a cloud had sunk down from above.

It didn't stop me for a second though.

It was eerie, sure, but also beautiful.

So there I was floating on dead still water

in the heavy fog right before sunrise.

I cast out one line and actively worked a second to maybe snag

a nice catfish.

When the sun began to rise, the fog around me,

so thick as it was, lit up orange like fire.

The new light bounced around in the cloud

until it felt like I was caught in a still frame

of an explosion.

It was absolutely gorgeous.

All the air turned that vivid color,

and the smaller whips of vapor became shimmering miniature rainbows

that flushed before vanishing.

I must have seen the air light up like that a hundred times

before, but on that day it was no less beautiful

than the very first time.

I tell ya, that was a better way

to start the day than any cup of coffee.

No offense, Christie.

I looked over at Christie and saw she was making no effort

to disguise her eavesdropping.

She shrugged and said, none taken.

That morning was special, not because the light

in the fog alone looked any more impressive,

but because of how the stillness of the water reflected

the fiery fog so perfectly.

All I could see up down and all around me

was that brilliant orange haze.

That is, until something else broke through.

A small, dark shape that rested in the line

between the glowing air and the slightly dimmer water.

It emerged in the direction of the rising sun,

so I had to squint a look at it

and through my eyelids it looked all soft and wavy.

I couldn't tell what it was for a few minutes.

It turned out to be a small rowboat,

the kind built for no more than a person or two.

I first thought a fellow fisherman might be out sitting

or laying low inside the boat,

taking everything in like me.

Thanks to the stillness of the water,

I didn't have to worry about us colliding.

Even though I couldn't see anybody

for the sake of being friendly,

I called out howdy, beautiful out here, isn't it?

Nobody answered me back.

Here's where things start to get strange.

Hopefully I said it enough times now

that I don't need to remind you,

but just in case the water was perfectly still.

Almost no current whatsoever.

And it was most certainly a rowboat I saw on the near horizon.

I could see two ores sticking off dangling motionless

in the water, but somehow the little boat

began drifting toward me.

Of course, even in the stillness of waters,

there's bound to be some subtle movement,

but not enough to move a boat this fast, Italian.

It came toward my boat as quickly

as if someone was rowing it toward me.

I called out again, again without receiving an answer,

and I started reeling in my act of line.

I wanted to get away.

Suddenly the orange ace felt ominous.

I couldn't see beyond 10 yards in any direction.

I knew vaguely how far I'd ventured out,

but with no side of the shore,

I felt especially nervous about the weird situation

I'd found myself in.

You might be thinking,

so what, it's just a rowboat, Johnny.

Not like it could've hurt jute, right?

And sure, you're right about that.

It could've just broke free of its tether

and drifted off empty.

Sure, I granted that.

But that's not the scenario that came to mind

right away out there on that glass, equaling lake.

My mind jumped to all the terrible reasons

a small boat like that might end up abandoned in the water.

After retrieving the line I'd been working,

I set down that pole and picked up the static line.

I put a bobber on it,

which rippled through the orange water on its way back to me,

until suddenly it dropped below the surface.

The excitement, thinking I'd gotten a bite

and from something big,

jostled my brain and threw out all of my fear and worries.

But the drag on the line persisted too consistently

to be from any fish.

I'd snagged something underwater,

something either very stuck or very heavy.

When I reeled hard enough,

I actually pulled my boat toward the bobber

on whatever the hook below it had caught.

I might have just cut the line,

but I had one of my favorite jerk rates down there,

so I had to at least try to get it back.

I felt the object shift a little,

which gave me an ounce of hope,

and just as I felt that little bit of give,

the empty robot floated past me.

It cruised right over my trap line about 10 feet away.

I could see into it and saw nobody inside.

Nobody passed out dead or sleep.

Nobody laying down to take in the sky.

Nobody at all.

Except that was above when the sun reached a high enough

elevation to light up some of the rest of the world.

So high it stopped making the fog glow quite so bright.

The shoreline began to appear

and their standing on it was man.

He waived to me, not in a friendly sort of way.

Well, not in friendly either,

but not in greeting, I guess is what I mean.

It sort of seemed like he was trying to flag me down.

I let my line go slack and waived back to him,

just trying to signal that I'd seen him hoping

he would give me some sort of explanation and quick.

Finding the empty boat already at me on edge

and seeing that man,

though something I still don't understand

that just fell off about him.

But just as I lowered my hand after waving,

the man on the shore evaporated in the fog.

As the sun rose just a few inches higher,

it's light stopped coloring the fog

and equipped reflecting so brightly off the water,

at least from where I was positioned.

The glassy water looked almost black now

under the low cloud billowing above it.

Just wanting to get off that water,

I started reeling again.

I almost forgot my hook was caught.

Whatever it found down there

in those murky depths shift again, ever so slightly,

then came dislodged.

I felt its weight drag my line down

a little deeper as the end of my pole bent with it.

In my mind, a sudden flash of two images

totally unprompted by my conscious thoughts

nearly made me lose my grip.

One, sort of floating in the background,

showed my immediate memory of the man on the shore.

The second, more prominent image

was of nothing I'd seen with my two eyes,

only the one up here.

Johnny tapped his forehead with his index finger

and looked around.

What I pictured was my hook down there

in this cold, dark waters stuck in the ribs

of a bloated corpse.

Did I have any proof that a dead man

was dragging my line down, bending my pole near snapping?

No, but I tell you all, I cut that line faster

than I even realized my knife was in my hand.

It snapped into the water

and I watched his ripples fade away.

I never learned whose boat I saw out there

or who that man on the shore was.

Nobody ever came looking for either of them

as far as I know.

I probably just got tricked by the light

and spooked by a log or something.

But there you go.

Asset, asset's done.

You're just going to leave us all hanging there.

That's all the closer I ever got, gone to Johnny.

During his story, he seemed to disappear into a chance,

but now his standoff is self-reamaged.

Oh, don't be so critical, parlayed, Wesley.

It was a good story, full of suspense, well told Johnny.

Ambivalent cheers went up

and a few old guys took tepid sips at the lits of their cups.

It didn't seem like anyone really wanted to go next,

except for maybe the guy leaning against the wall.

He didn't look at all uncomfortable without a chair

and didn't bother Christy for anything

as she came around to top everyone off.

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I'm the host of Big Technology podcast,

a longtime reporter and an on-air contributor to CMBC.

And if you're like me, you're trying to figure out

how artificial intelligence is changing

the business world and our lives.

So each week on Big Technology,

I bring on key actors from companies building AI tech

and outsiders trying to influence it.

Asking where this is all going,

they come from places like Nvidia, Microsoft,

Amazon, and plenty more.

So if you want to be smart with your wallet,

your career choices, and meetings with your colleagues

and at dinner parties,

listen to Big Technology podcast wherever you get your podcasts.

But Wesley didn't notice the man in the back.

And while Christie refilled everyone's mocks,

he said, I have a story to offer with just as much mystery,

but Stan might find the conclusion a bit more to his taste.

I'm all ears said Stan.

Wesley pushed back his chair, stood and moved behind it

where he placed his hands on its back and leaned forward,

making the wood creek.

As most of you know, I used to teach physics.

Variations of, yep, and we know,

went up all around the table,

informing me this was a fact

Wesley mentioned with some frequency.

Oh yeah, yeah, he dismissed them.

I worked with many graduate students

on their seas.

Some of them even went on to work with many of the grates

in their respective fields.

But ironically, the most memorable student I ever had

was one who dropped out and never became anything.

Nothing in the world of physics anyway.

But she was the only student who I can honestly say

taught me something.

Her name was Rachel, and she was pursuing her PhD

focusing on magnatics.

She had a brilliant mind, but thought a bit too much

of her originality and creativity.

She frequently bought me designs, schemes, calculations,

behaving as if she had just brought me the solution

to all of the well's energy problems.

Only for me to regrettably inform her

that whatever breakthrough she'd had was already tried

by Nicole, Tesla, or similarly great mind of the past.

I'd always told her not to be discouraged,

because as soon as she could just learn to examine

all the work done before her,

she could build something truly remarkable off of it.

And then she disappeared for a while.

I eventually learned her mother,

who she had been very close with and had done everything

in her life to impress,

passed away after being struck by a driver

who fell asleep at the wheel.

I wrote her a letter, well, an email expressing my condolences

and telling her we could easily arrange

for her to make up her labs whenever she felt ready.

I didn't hear back.

Then, one day, it was a Friday.

I saved late to finalize a report

before the long winter break.

I started an automated process,

then went to relieve myself while it ran its course.

I shut my office door behind me out of habit.

It's latched, I could off the polished floor

and the hallway.

Every light in the building had been shut off,

so only the red emergency lights provided any light

for me on my way to the restroom.

Only when I opened the door to go and did,

I hear someone else's footsteps down the hall,

not wanting to get arrested in conversation

with another late stare,

a quickly ducked into the dark restroom

and quietly closed the door.

I needed to turn the light on and struggle

for a few seconds to find a switch.

During that time,

I listened as the gentle footsteps passed by the door.

It struck me as all.

I heard only the person steps.

I didn't hear any swishing of clothes,

no size of 11th-hour expiration.

You don't even notice, adventure to guess,

how many of their noises usually accompany

a sound so simple as a footsteps.

Until those other noises are absent.

Well, I still had a task at hand,

so after I finished up in the restroom,

I returned to my office.

Along the way, I saw no sign of another person

in the building heard none, either.

But when I again stood at my office door,

I found it partially open.

Now you might say, Wesley, you crazy old man,

you just forgot to close the door.

But remember how I told you its latch

echoed down the hall when I closed it?

I distinctly remember hearing it that evening

because the building was otherwise so quiet.

I would have surely detected any weakness in the noise

which might have indicated my failure

to properly shut the door.

Of course, my first thought went to the footsteps

I'd heard on my way into the restroom.

My premonition that whoever they belonged to wished

to speak with me, therefore interrupting my last minute work,

I thought must have been correct.

I pushed open the door prepared to meet

whoever had come to find me.

Or so I thought.

There, standing on the other side of my desk,

just behind the tall chair,

where I usually sat reading, writing, grating,

was a shimmering translucent which took the vague form

of a woman.

With her back to me, she jumped when I entered,

turning ever so slightly toward me

before vanishing into thin air,

air which she left electric with crackling static

in her wake.

Now you man all know me.

Christy, you too.

You know I'm a man of science.

Anything that exists can be proven given enough time

and resources.

That's my philosophy.

Well, friends, I admittedly fell too scared to sit in my chair

with my back to the empty place to apparition,

with left behind, so while waiting for my nerves to settle,

I went looking for the answer,

the logical rationale for how I'd seen what I saw.

I retraced the footsteps I'd heard,

walking past the restrooms to where from which

they first reached my ears.

I stood in a tea intersection

and could have turned left for right.

Right would have taken me to the lecture halls

and more faculty offices.

Left led to the lab.

Haven't just experienced what I would categorize

as a scientific anomaly of course I chose left.

In our lab, we had a variety of equipment,

but don't fully remind eyes

of some brown laboratory like you might see

in a Hollywood horror film.

We essentially had rows of desks lined up,

each with relatively simple equipment

for a particular field of study.

There were no windows,

so we could more easily control

like conditions and temperature,

which meant when I first opened the door to the lab,

it was pitch black inside.

But deep inside that darkness,

I heard the muffled solbs of a woman.

I called out hello and a crying immediately stopped.

Nobody answered me though.

I stood in the doorway waiting and heard nothing more.

With rising apprehension,

I reached into the dark to feel

for the lights which inflicted on.

The rows of white lights in the ceiling came to life.

Those which needed to be replaced soon-boast and hound.

A couple of lights deeper in the room flickered

erratically before stabilizing.

It was beneath one of these flickering lights

that I saw of her.

Rachel, my student who had vanished

her earlier in the semester.

She gave me a good fright, Rachel.

I found her culled up with her knees to her chin

and one of the swiveling chairs by desk.

In front of her, encased in child glass,

set a complex device she can cut on her own

out of parts of the various equipment around her.

Rachel, what are you doing here?

I asked her.

She seemed surprised to see me.

Said she thought the building was empty.

I asked if that was why she chose such a bizarre time

to return to the lab and she told me it was.

When I asked if she knew anything about footsteps

and the hallway or an apparition which visited my office,

Rachel looked up.

Thumb struck, she was, this formerly unshakable student.

See, Rachel had just finished conducting an experiment.

Experiment which she thought to have been a total failure.

She built an electrostatic generator inside of a vacuum tube.

Inside the tube, she also placed a bracelet

her mother had been wearing the night she died,

which was stained with blood.

Prior to her experiment, she used an electromagnetic field

to charge the bracelet, making it interact with the electrostatic

device in a way she speculated hope more like

would bring about some ethereal remainder of her mother

if such a thing existed.

Her hypothesis was convoluted, a mutant offspring

of the scientific and spiritual clearly born

of a person maddened with grief.

Yet somehow, although not in the manner she expected,

it worked.

I told Rachel to go stand by the restroom door

and wait while I have said her experiment

and performed it for a second time.

I must say, I found the prospect terrifying.

I just wanted to reward my student for her profound discovery

and give her the closure she saw.

While she was gone, I did exactly as promised.

And when she returned to me, it was with tears

streaming down her cheeks.

I never asked her to tell me what she saw or what else

may have happened out in that hallway

and she never offered to tell me.

However, as a scientist, I know how much stock

to put in the power of human emotion.

Her reaction was all the evidence I needed.

Wesley looked down and picked up his coffee

and took a long sip.

We all knew he was done.

Hang on, said Johnnie.

If you believe this experiment actually worked

and you conjured up a ghost, why didn't you publish it?

How come we've never heard of this incredible break

through yours?

Because Wesley incidentally countered

as if expecting this question.

I was never able to recreate it without Rachel

or with any item except her mother's bracelet.

It feel allowed me to be briefly unscientific.

I personally believe whatever emotional power Rachel

had stilled in that piece of jewelry

mattered more than any of the factor in her experiment.

Perhaps if someone experiencing a similar level of grief

and viewed an object with matching power,

we could recreate what Rachel did in the physics lab

that night.

I'm content to have experienced one such apparition though

and I count myself lucky to have witnessed it.

Unlike at the end of Johnnie's story,

after which most of the men had ruminated in silence,

after Wes' story nearly everyone spoke at once,

all having something to say.

It became immediately clear to me

the character Wesley played in this group.

He was the unwittingly arrogant academic who thought more

of his own intellect than any of his comrades did.

Yet he made up for the spiny personality with his big heart.

I keenly understood that these men

appreciated each other for their differences,

for their differences or what made the gatherings

interesting enough to continue for years

and in some cases, decades.

I made the uproar accusations of exaggeration,

friendly denials of credibility, good naturedures

at Wes' scholarly prose.

I turned to stamp-side me and whispered,

although I'm sure it was quite loud.

I'll need to leave soon.

Thanks for inviting me though.

This has been really fun.

Oh, do you need to leave right the second?

Us, Stan.

I stammered afraid of what I might be committing

to if I stay.

Stan said, well, at least stick around for one more

if you can.

I've got to tell my story yet.

It's one some of you won't buy, I know.

Some of you will though.

The others quit backing on Wesley

and gave their attention to Stan.

He turned to me again with his head cocked and said,

maybe even a new friend.

I think he may have forgotten my name,

but something in how he looked at me felt

indescribably knowing.

He gave me the sense that we were in on a secret together

albeit a secret I could not pretend to be aware of.

But one man's standing against the back wall

seemed to become very interested as soon as Stan

made to begin his story.

And he too, the standing man,

watched me like a light-hearted co-conspirator.

I haven't thought much about how to start this,

said Stan, so I guess I'll just lay a little groundwork

and go from there.

I took Paladin, oh gosh, how long ago now?

Just about three weeks ago, I bet.

Anywho, he's a well behaved or be a feisty golden lap.

He's got to be walked at least twice a day,

led out to play, cause otherwise he get to real ANSI.

That boy is not meant to be cooped up.

In fact, just after this, I'll be walking in.

To be straight with you all,

I wanted to have this conversation about ghosts

because of something that happened to me

just over the weekend.

On Saturday morning, stuck ghosts to my mind

like cheese in the bottom of a pan.

And, well, I wanted to run the story by all of you,

but I couldn't go first.

No, not before you'd all let your mind be opened

and injured, too.

What I'm about to tell you happened to me

is the 100% no BS, no lies, truth.

I promise that.

Saturday morning, I took Paladin for a walk,

and like I said, he's a real good boy.

But that morning, he jumped away from me.

He ripped the leash from my hands and knew he pulled me down.

He shot across the street and into the park

with the leash swinging and jumping behind him.

I looked, thinking he must have seen a Raccoon of Square,

but as far as I could see,

the pilot wasn't chasing a thing.

He jumped through the park like he'd been struck mad

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Hi, this is Alex Cantrowitz.

I'm the host of Big Technology podcast,

a longtime reporter and an on-air contributor to CMBC.

And if you're like me, you're trying to figure out

how artificial intelligence is changing

the business world and our lives.

So each week on Big Technology, I bring on key actors

from companies building AI tech and outsiders trying

to influence it.

Asking where this is all going,

they come from places like Nvidia,

Microsoft, Amazon, and plenty more.

So if you want to be smart with your wallet,

your career choices and meetings with your colleagues

and at dinner parties,

listen to Big Technology podcast

or ever you get your podcasts.

I thought maybe he had.

I called him back to me and after a couple of tries,

he listened and came running back

with his tongue flapping out the side of his mouth.

He looks so happy, just thrilled with himself.

Now, pilot's been through a lot

so I didn't want to be too hard on him.

I took up his leash and tried to lead him home,

but that stubborn dog didn't want to budge.

Now is Zaid of running around like a fool.

He planted his rear on the sidewalk

and sat there with the dumbest, happiest look you've ever seen.

I gave his leash a gentle tug,

but he would not respond to me.

I looked up and said,

come on boy, it's time to get you home.

You wanna treat?

That's always a good way to get him moving

but not that morning apparently

and what else when I looked at him,

my eyes were sort of drawn up was only.

There was nothing there were.

There's still my eyes got locked

the staring into the blank space beside Pala

where I felt I sensed someone there.

I can't say how because I didn't see here.

I smell in a body.

I just sort of sensed a person.

Yes, a human being standing near my dog.

Pilates seemed to sense them too

and was remotely bothered.

In fact, I've never seen him look so happy.

Finally, he let me lead him back to the house.

Well, I guess he led me.

He really didn't seem to pay me any mind at all

as he followed whatever I couldn't see.

At the front door, pilots said obediently,

but not from me instead at the sky

until I unlocked the door.

He walked inside slowly and for the rest of that day,

he moatbed around the house looking sad entire.

I couldn't think of a reason for him to act like that.

I offered him treats, played with him as well as I could,

but nothing I did cheer him up.

Strange.

I took him on his evening walk at the usual time,

but we didn't leave the block.

He just seemed so depressed.

So the next morning, this is yesterday,

I was cooking some bacon and eating an apple

to keep the doctor away.

I fed a couple strips to Pala.

He already seemed to be warming back up to his usual self

and I was glad to see it.

I always tend to move a bit slow on Sunday mornings

so we didn't do our first walk on time.

I just finished breakfast and was tying my shoes

when somebody knocked on my front door.

This time of year, he never can know what that means.

Could be a neighbor dropping off some Christmas cookies,

could be somebody who's got a god stuck up the road.

Either way, he'd better answer.

I lent over with one shoe and opened up the door,

but I tell you, nobody was there.

I looked both ways.

Then I realized there were no footprints in the snow

which had blown around overnight.

I could clearly see mine and Pala's from Saturday

but not one foot northward yet

to disturb the fresh layer of snow.

Strange how L.I. started to shut the door

but Pala darted through it at the very last second diet

the door back open and yelled after him

but he got out of reach quick

and me with just one half-less shoe and I had to just

watch him grow.

He ran the same direction.

We usually walked so I estimated he would go to the puck again

in my car.

I thought I might have a chance of catching him.

I drove to the park, didn't see him.

So I went to the next place that came to mind

he might have gone.

Stan looked around the table as if checking

to see if he'd been understood.

One of the men, whose name I forget, asked Bruce's place.

Stan looked down and slowly knotted.

Bruce, I thought.

When did they mention Bruce before?

Wait, wasn't he the one who I should have explained

for our friend here's sake.

Stan continued gesturing toward me.

Pala belonged to Bruce before he passed.

I adopted him.

We always got long, Pala, and I, so it seemed like a good fit.

Not a vagrement bought all around me.

I noticed one character was suddenly absent.

The man standing against the wall

had disappeared without my noticing until a point.

Stan said, so I naturally considered that Pala

might return to his long time home.

Maybe he wanted to see if, you know,

his old master had come back.

I pulled into Bruce's driveway.

The sign in his yard still says it's for sale.

I got out to have a look around,

maybe call Pala's name a bit to see if I could draw him in.

I wouldn't need to though.

Right as I closed my car door, I heard him barking.

I would have been relieved to hear it,

except there was just one problem.

The barking was coming from inside the house.

I hadn't noticed him because of the reflection

and the window earlier,

but now I could clearly see his face

in Bruce's front window.

He was smiling, eager to see me.

I assumed someone must have been around,

maybe the realtor, and let him inside

to keep him until animal control could pick him up.

So I knocked in the front door.

Someone had to be there, right?

Nobody answered, so I checked around back.

Through the patio door, the house looked pretty empty

beside the pilot.

I found the realtor's hide key,

but I didn't have the combination.

Luckily, it turned out nobody told the realtor

about the keeper's kept hidden in the doorbell.

Isn't that crazy though,

that the doors were locked even though Pala was inside?

Somebody could have let him in and left him,

but it hadn't been that long yet.

Anyhow, Pala met me at the door,

but was careful not to let me catch him by the collar.

Maybe going in with Alician Han was a good idea.

I announced myself to anyone who might be around

as a followed Pala into the house.

Bruce's family took all the pictures

and sentimental stuff down,

but otherwise his house is still pretty much how it always was.

It felt strange to be back there.

Pala went into the kitchen,

then around to the staircase going up.

I was right on his tail until the kitchen.

I stopped there because I was pretty sure

I'd heard one of the boards above my head and creek.

I told Pala to come back,

but of course he didn't listen.

He went right up those stairs straight toward the place

where I now most definitely heard a second creek.

It sounded like a grown man was standing directly above me,

which, those of you who've been there might know,

was Bruce's bedroom.

I listened through the floor as Pala joined the person

standing above me.

I waited to hear a voice, but no one spoke.

Pala was obediently quiet,

not hyper like he usually gets around strangers.

That gave me a little comfort.

Again, announcing myself,

I went up the stairs as loudly as I could.

I wanted to give whoever was up

there as much notice as possible

that I would soon appear.

Pala stuck his head out of the bedroom doorway,

then quickly spun around back inside.

I started talking right away as I got to the room.

I think I said something like,

sorry for letting him bother you.

Before I froze there in the doorway,

Pala was in there all by himself.

I had another footstep down the hole

in one of the other rooms.

I called up and stepped into the hallway,

but nobody responded.

So I asked Pala, where are they, boy?

He stopped in front of me in the doorway

for a second with his tail straight back.

Neither of us breathed.

After a time, Pala braved a short trip back

to the bedroom down at the corner of the hole.

I decided to keep back.

As soon as Pala reached that doorway,

his tail pointed upwards and he ran in.

Watching him disappear,

startled me into a run.

He barked twice.

My heart was fit to burst, you know.

I started to wonder just who or what exactly

we chased into the dark room.

A burger?

A squatter.

Pilots a big boy, but he's no fighting dog.

I reached the doorway just in time

to watch Pala chase his own shadow into the corner.

He stopped and looked up about halfway to the ceiling

and his tail stopped wagging.

It stuck back at an angle like a warning flag.

When he barked, I recognized the anticipatory tone.

He always took a festruggle to long to open

his treat jar or lock the door on our way out of the house.

With each bark, he regaled backward a bit

and gestures slightly towards the floor

in front of him with his head.

I said to him, come on boy, let's get you back home.

But he wouldn't budge from that corner.

It took me 10 minutes to get him to leave.

But once we got out of there,

things have carried on like normal since.

Strange how the twit got me thinking about ghosts

and that's a story I wanted to share.

I felt Stan looking at me,

but I was looking out the big front window

into the fullings no since morning bell set

and the corner of the window looked the long way down

the next block, although the blowings

no made it difficult to see in detail pass the fire

a hydrant and the corner people floored by to,

oblivious to a tall man passing by the mall

and bothered by the cold and blowing snow.

Some I out even from behind,

I recognized the man who'd been leaning against the wall.

He's still with us their friend.

Stan asked me, I turned to him and said, sorry,

I guess I just got lost thinking about the sorts

of possibilities this story like that opens up.

To force Stan could even take in these words, I asked,

what did you say your friend's name was again?

Bruce replied Wesley.

Johnny clarified, Bruce Edwards.

Edward?

Oh, never mind.

I thought it sounded familiar,

but I was thinking of someone else.

Stan eyed me, likely realizing along with me

that no one had said Bruce's last name allowed yet.

He didn't say anything though.

Instead, he got caught up in the low,

but lively discussion which his story provoked.

Meanwhile, I pulled out my phone under the table

and searched for Bruce Edwards obituary.

As I hoped, it included a recent photo of him.

And sure enough, the face staring up at me

was the same which it interacted with me from the back wall.

Excuse me, I interrupted.

Sorry, but I really need to go.

Great story is everyone.

Tell you what, if you'll let me join you tomorrow,

I just might have a good good story myself.

I think you'll all find it pretty interesting.

Stan winked at me and said, see you tomorrow then.

I hurried out into the cold,

realizing I'd forgotten to leave a tip

for Christie in the jar.

Oh well, I would get her double tomorrow.

I couldn't afford the time to turn back.

By the time I confirmed his identity,

Bruce's ghost had already drifted out of sight

down the block.

Shielding my eyes against the flurry, I pursued him

but at the next corner with no sign

of the toll operation in any direction I surrendered.

I would not get to ask Bruce why he chose to appear

at his morning club and why to me alone.

Unless Stan could also see him

hence the insinuation and winking.

What I told those men the next morning

after sharing my story about seeing a mysterious man standing

in the back of the coffee shop

was that I thought Bruce might be making his rounds,

saying his goodbyes.

Even those who had seemed skeptical

if the store was told the prior morning

appear to accept this theory with humble gratitude.

From then on, I've always waved to the regulars

where I picked up my coffee

but I've never sat with them again.

They never pressured me to either.

It isn't my time to join them yet.

Whatever the reason Bruce and maybe Stan

chose me through which to channel

the gift of Bruce's final goodbye,

I'm glad he did because I received a gift from it myself.

I've learned not to hurry so quickly through each day,

always too eager to reach the next stage, the next chapter.

I know I'll get there eventually.

Right now, I need to pay attention

to what's happening right around me right now.

There are stores happening in every direction

and ghosts will likely touch every one of them

at one point or another, with a link in the description.

You can also support the show by buying merch.

That link is also in the description below.

To stay up to date, follow me on Instagram at the warning woods

and if you feel ready, meet me here next week

for another journey into the warning woods.

Tyler Reddick here from 2311 Racing,

another checkered flag for the books.

Time to celebrate with Jamba.

Jump in at JambaCasino.com.

Let's Jamba.

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Hey, I'm Josh Spiegel, host of the podcast,

Lunatic in the newsroom.

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