My Cousin Elmo says, “Only during a hurricane can you buy a shovel, tarp and duct tape, and no one thinks a thing about it.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “So, when a baby crawls across the floor for its bottle, it’s cute, but when I do it, I need an intervention.”

It was a three-day weekend, and my friend had loaned me the use of his cabin for a short holiday retreat. I pulled in by early afternoon and unpacked my truck.

Once set up, I poured myself a small glass of Candian whiskey, pulled a chair from the small table by the wall, dragged it out onto the porch, and sat down. As I sipped my drink, I looked down the long valley towards the massive mountains to the south.

“That’s gonna be a magnificent view as the sun comes up in the morning,” I thought.

For how long I sat there, I don’t know. I do recall getting up and pouring myself another drink, returning to my chair.

A minute later, I noticed a knothole in the wood deck. Slightly intoxicated, I got down on my knees to peek into the hole to see what I could.

Bending over, I toppled, smashing my forehead hard into the plank. As I hit the board, something poked me in the eye.

Surprised, I got to my feet and jumped from the porch to look under it. The space was about a foot between the dirt and the planking, but nothing was there.

Confused, I stood up and found I was no longer alone. In the chair, I once occupied sat a man.

He was dark-skinned, younger than me, but had a white beard and head full of hair color. He wore blue jeans, a tee shirt, a zip-up hoody like me, and sandals.

“Howdy,” he said.

His sudden appearance did not alarm me, though looking back, it should have.

“Where did you come from?” I asked.

“Oh, I been around,” he answered.

“And, who are you?”

“You know.”

“Are you the one who poked me in the eye?”

“Yup.”

“Why?”

“To get your attention.”

For a few seconds, I stood there staring at the stranger before I asked, “You hungry?”

“Famished,” he said.

We went inside, where I prepared dinner; steak, baked beans, a sliced-up tomato, and a drink of choice.

“I have soda, whiskey, or water. Sorry, but I don’t have any wine.”

“No problem — I’ll have water.”

We ate our dinner in silence. Afterward, we spent the night and small hours of the morning talking about theology, politics, food, and women.

“Redheads,” he said often.

At some point, my mind became so full that I became forgetful. The sun was cresting the far away mountains when I woke up.

I was on the bed, covered by my sleeping bag, and my guest was gone.

Then I looked at the table and saw a note written on a small piece of paper. It read, “Thank you for dinner and the conversation. We need to talk more often, J.”

Quickly I went outside to look for him and found no one. On the porch, by the leg of the chair, sat an empty bottle of Canadian whiskey.

I thought, “I shouldn’t have drank so much.”

Then I noticed that the knothole was gone, and I rushed inside, recalling the note. It was in a script that I did not recognize.

For the longest time, I sat on the edge of the bed, puzzling over what had happened and wondering if it were real or an alcohol-induced hallucination. The remainder of my weekend, though restless, was what one could only call ‘normal.’

Returning home, my wife was concerned at how fiery-red my face was, saying I should be careful about getting so much sun as I could develop skin cancer. She suggested I apply a health layer of aloe vera, which I did to calm her fears.

Two days later, I took the note left for me to a linguist at the local university.

“Where did you get this?” she asked with some excitement.

I told her, though I could tell she was somewhat skeptical.

“Well, you should hold on to it — it’s ancient Aramaic, also known as Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, and it’s been unused since 200 Anno Domini.”

I stood there stunned, unable to speak.

“And by the way,” she added, “I’d get that sunburn looked after before it scars or you develop skin cancer.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “I’m pretty sure I need only one more bad decision before I have the whole Set.”

Janice was a fan of horror movies and books and even dabbled in ghost hunting from time to time. So when she saw the area rug with the Ouija board design, she knew she had to have one.

It became the talk of her many friends, who believed it to be perfect given Janice’s personality. They failed to recognize the small changes in her, though.

It began the morning after she purchased the rug while she was gone. She had set the Roomba to vacuum the house, and it accidentally summoned the demon that slowly started taking possession of Janice.

take joy in simple
peanut butter and jelly sandwich
early bedtime yawn

Karen was excited to get her new purchase home. The Kachina doll was unlike any in her collection.

Proudly she set the figure on the middle shelf next to the colorful feathered dancers. She knew he would fit right in among the others.

With dinner over, she was busy cleaning the kitchen when she heard the dog growl, followed by barking, then by a pained yelp.

Karen walked into the living room only to find herself darted by a small arrow in her left breast, just above the nipple. She reacted to the pain to be met by two more arrows, one in her hand, another in her right cheek.

Then she saw her recent purchase jump from the shelf, screaming and racing towards her. The Kachina shot three more arrows, each striking her in her right thigh.

“Oh no you don’t,” Karen cried as she grabbed the doll at the waist and rushed back to her kitchen.

She flicked on the garbage disposal and shoved the figurine into the hole, “I saw ‘Trilogy of Terror’ as a kid, you little bastard.”

Helene sat on her stoop, enjoying the cool Autumn air. Her joy broke by shouting from across the street.

It was Korean George hollering at someone to leave his corner bodega. A young punk hurried out as Korean George chased him, wielding a bat.

“And don’t lemme see your ass in here again.”

“Yeah, whatever gook-face.”

The man walked across the street to where Helene sat, grinning.

“What’ya staring at you old hag?”

“Just watching you.”

“Well, don’t, you’re gonna burn a hole in me.”

She smiled as he walked away, breaking into laughter when he spontaneously burst into flame.

0500 hours, October 26, and Wilson’s body continued to tingle as he stepped onto the wooden porch of Crazy Kate’s boardinghouse on A Street. Passing through the Gate did that to him every time.

He reached the door and tried the knob. It turned, and he pushed his way inside.

To his left was the glass oil lamp, as expected. It was lit, with the wick barely visible.

As he moved forward, he stepped on the tail of an orange tabby that had never been there before. The house cat screamed in pain and bolted between Wilson’s legs, throwing the man off-balance.

In trying to avoid the cat and regain his balance, Wilson bumped into the low table on which sat the oil lamp. Before he could react, it smashed to the floor and erupted into flames.

There was nothing he could do. The boarding house was a tinder box and exploded into a roaring conflagration.

All Wilson could do was return to the Gate and the 21st century, leaving 1875 Virginia City to burn yet again.

Saturday, just after noon — I had finished delivering the last of the Comstock Chronicle and Dayton Valley Dispatch. My truck broke down, so I could not finish it the day before.

Driving up Six-mile Canyon, I happened on a woman in a small car with a flat tire. Knowing what it is like to wait for service, I pulled over and offered to help her, which she happily accepted.

During our few minutes by the side of the road and her car, I learned she was in the Comstock scouting locations for an upcoming dystopian film and looking for local talent. I told her about all the actors Virginia City had working in it, especially at the Cowboy Show next to the Storey County Fire Museum.

She gave me her card and asked if I had ever done any acting. Boy, I was glad she asked.

After I listed all my various film gigs, she told me to make a short audition video and email it to her, which I have. Now, we wait.