Growing up in the coastal beauty of Washington State, I carried an upbringing intertwined with the supernatural, thanks to my grandmother, a gifted medium. In the shadow of the quaint town of New London, nestled beyond Hoquiam on Highway 101, my grandparents’ unique house stood as a beacon of enigmatic tales.
This ancestral abode, originally a logging bunkhouse, stood tall with two stories, two bedrooms, and a one-car garage, built by my grandfather and great uncle. My grandfather was no ordinary man; he was a master of invention, crafting band saws that revolutionized the timber industry across the West Coast and Canada. His workshop echoed with innovation and mechanical genius, a testament to his legacy.
The driveway, a gravel expanse leading to the house, bore witness to the comings and goings of trucks and visitors alike. Crunching under tires and illuminated by the glow of twin streetlights, it ensured that no arrival went unnoticed.
Friday nights brought an air of anticipation, as my grandmother hosted gatherings in the living room, open to all without charge or reservation. By 7 pm, a motley group of nine or ten souls had gathered, my father and I among them. A sense of normalcy prevailed as the evening unfolded, the hallway light guiding those in need.
Yet, this fall evening brought more than anticipated. With the dark descending early, a hush settled over the room. As 7:30 approached, the ritual began. Then, a stillness and an unspoken lull followed. From outside, a car wound its way into the driveway, the gravel announcing its arrival. My impulse was to rise, but my father’s warning glance rooted me in place.
We listened, watched. The car’s engine ceased, followed by the rhythmic cadence of doors opening and closing. Footsteps traced a path over gravel, then grass, then the wooden steps leading to the front deck. My father’s resolve wavered as he rose to greet the newcomers. But his gaze toward the window held him captive—a sight that evoked paralysis.
My grandfather’s eyes followed my father’s, locking onto an empty space where a car should have been. Confusion danced across their faces, shared disbelief that spread among us all. In what felt like an eternity, but was likely only a fleeting moment, our collective senses failed us.
As abruptly as they had appeared, the invisible visitors departed. Footsteps retreated, car doors opened, and an engine rumbled to life. The sound of a backing car accompanied their vanishing act. A spell had been cast upon us, challenging the boundaries of our reality.
That night, in the presence of shared experiences and the inescapable void of the invisible, our belief systems were shaken. We were left to ponder the inexplicable encounter, forever etched into the memory of New London, a reminder that the boundary between the known and the unknown is far more porous than we dare admit.