Robert J. Bottrell -- Baby Photos

 These are photos my grandma put in a scrapbook for me of my Grandma Robert James Bottrell.

1961. A Letter from Poland: To My Grandfather, John Froncek

Registered airmail envelope sent from Żmigród, Poland,
to John Froncek in Stronach, Michigan, around 1961.
It bears three 25-groszy Polish stamps featuring
philosopher Bronisław Trentowski, and is marked
“Par Avion” and “R Żmigród.”

My grandfather, John Andrew Froncek, was born in 1890 in Cleveland, Ohio — the son of Polish immigrants Stanislaus and Blanche (Luczyk) Froncek. When he was still a child, the family returned to Poland. As an adult, John immigrated back to the United States, eventually settling in Stronach, Michigan.

Like many families in Manistee County, the Fronceks came from a small farming region of Poland and carried with them their faith, work ethic, and deep family bonds. John grew up speaking both Polish and English, working the land, and maintaining contact with relatives who had remained behind in the old country — including his sister, Julia (Froncek) Ochałek, who would later write him the heartfelt letter that inspired this post.

In the late 1950s, that letter arrived — sent by Julia from Żmigród, Poland, to her brother John and his wife Lila in Stronach, Michigan.

The envelope, creased and worn, bears three 25-groszy Polish stamps — portraits of an old bearded man gazing outward — and across the front, in careful handwriting:

John Froncek
Stronach, Mich
U.S.A.

Inside was a letter written in pencil on thin, lined paper. The handwriting tilts gently to the right, the ink faded but steady — the kind of script that suggests patience and hope. The writer was Julia (Froncek) Ochałek, my grandfather John’s sister, who had remained in Poland. Writing from the village of Łączyce near Żmigród, she addressed the letter to her “dear brother and sister-in-law,” John and Lila Froncek in Michigan.

The letter was sent November 11, from the small village of Łączyce, near Żmigród in southern Poland.
It was written just two years after the death of her husband — and carries both grief and faith in equal measure.

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The Letter (Translated from Polish)

Łączyce, November 11

Dear ones,

May the first words of our letter not be lost. May Jesus Christ and His Mother lead you to the Kingdom of Heaven.

We send you our warmest greetings, dear brother and sister-in-law. It is sad here for us because my husband died on August 1, 1957.

I remain with our three children. My oldest boy is 11 years old, my daughter is 8, and my youngest boy is 5. Life has become very difficult for me.

The older ones go to school, and I work hard to provide for them. I would kindly ask if you might be able to send something, as we are struggling very much.

We greet you warmly together with my children.

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Context and Reflection

This letter reached my grandfather, John Andrew Froncek, in Stronach — a quiet Michigan town where many Polish immigrants built new lives but never let go of the old one. The sender was his sister, Julia (Froncek) Ochałek, writing from Żmigród, Poland.

Her words tell of postwar Poland — a time when life was hard, money was tight, and faith carried families through. She began with a blessing, shared her sorrow, and spoke of her struggles with a kind of calm that feels both heartbreaking and strong.

I can picture my grandfather reading her letter at the kitchen table, maybe in the evening after chores, the house still. He’d unfold the thin paper, trace her handwriting, and pause over each word — knowing that even though they were half a world apart, they were still family.

Letters like this remind me that family doesn’t end with borders. It survives through faith, hardship, and the written word. The connection was never broken; it just changed shape — into ink, paper, and memory.

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Address on the Letter

Julia Ochałek
Village of Gorzyce
Żmigród Post Office
Jasło County, Poland

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Original Polish Text (for reference)

Łączyce, dnia 11 XI

Pierwszych słowach naszego listu — niech będzie pochwalony Jezus Chrystus i Matka Jego.

Oświadczamy się, odwzajemniamy miłym zdrowiem. Kochani, u nas jest smutno, bo mąż zmarł 1 sierpnia 1957 roku.

Zostało mi troje dzieci: chłopczyk mój starszy ma 11 lat, dziewczynka ma lat 8, a mój młodszy ma 5 lat.

Bardzo mi przykro i ciężko żyć. Dwoje chodzą do szkoły. Ujęciu i wujciu, bardzo bym prosiła, jeśli byście czymś mogli mnie poratowali.

Pozdrawiamy was wraz z mojemi dziećmi.

Ossawald Crumb: The Man Who Never Was — and the Legend Who Still Is

If you’ve ever wandered downtown Ludington and spotted a bearded old lumberjack painted on a mural, looking half-myth and half-memory, you’ve met Ossawald Crumb.

He was never real — and yet, he’s as Ludington as the sawdust that built this town.

The legend was born in 1932, drawn to life by Robert L. Stearns, son of Justus Stearns, the lumber baron who turned white pine into an empire. Robert wasn’t just the heir to a fortune; he was an artist with a pencil and a sense of humor. Between business deals, he’d sketch a burly, bearded frontiersman with a twinkle in his eye and a panther named Horace at his side. That man became Ossawald Crumb — Mason County’s own Paul Bunyan, part satire, part hometown hero.

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From Sketchpad to Stearns Hotel

Robert’s drawings caught on fast. He published two small booklets in the 1930s — local treasures now — filled with Ossawald’s tall tales and lumberjack wit. Then, to complete the legend, the Stearns family opened the Ossawald Crumb Tap Room inside the Stearns Hotel.

Locals came to sip beer under the watchful eye of Ossawald’s caricature, hanging framed on the wall. The Tap Room became a kind of shrine — equal parts lumber lore and Ludington lounge. If you were there on the right night, you might have even seen the “Crumb Crew,” a few businessmen-turned-storytellers, spinning yarns about Ossie’s supposed exploits in the Big Woods.

Ossawald, they said, was the first white man to settle Ludington. The first to bring horses into Mason County. A dreamer, a tinkerer, a man who could fell a forest before breakfast and still have time to plan the next town over lunch.

His wife, of course, did the heavy lifting — at least according to the cartoons. That was Robert Stearns’ humor: part lumberjack, part satire, and maybe a wink to the wives who actually ran things.

---

A Local Hero with Ink for Blood

Robert Stearns’ work never went national, but it didn’t need to. Ludington already had its hero. Ossawald Crumb lived on the walls of the Stearns Motor Inn, in barroom stories, and even as ceramic figurines — 10,000 of them once ordered by a local Chamber of Commerce committee in the 1950s to promote tourism.

Those figurines, hand-painted and now almost lost to time, were meant to put Ludington’s character — literally — on the map. Most of the molds were later destroyed, which somehow makes Ossawald’s story feel even more like folklore: a creation that lived hard and vanished quietly, like the lumber era itself.

---

Advertisement for the Osswald Crumb Tap Room,
Ludington Daily News — February 19, 1935.
“Dancing every Wednesday night,” the notice reads,
with music by Harold La Fleur and his band.
Located inside the Stearns Hotel, Ludington, Michigan —
offering sandwiches, beer, and fine liquors
to locals seeking mid-week tunes and company.

From Cartoon to Character

Decades later, Ossawald returned — this time with a pulse.
C. Dale Bannon, a Ludington native with a white beard and a booming laugh, began portraying Ossawald Crumb at Historic White Pine Village. He brought the legend back to life for kids and tourists, greeting them with a handshake, a story, and the same twinkle Robert Stearns once drew in graphite.

“I resemble old Ossie,” Bannon liked to say. “Bald head, white beard, and plenty of stories.”

He wasn’t wrong.

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The Spirit Still Haunts the Pines

Today, Ossawald Crumb lives on in murals, in archives at White Pine Village, and in the pages of old Ludington Daily News columns. He’s not real — but he’s real enough to matter.

Because every town worth its salt — or its sawdust — needs a myth to believe in. Ludington’s just happens to wear flannel and carry an axe.

And somewhere, maybe on a foggy night near the harbor, if you listen close enough, you can almost hear him —
Ossawald Crumb, lumberjack, legend, and the ghost of a time when men built empires from timber and ink.

1905 — The Guardian Chair

My grandma kept this chair in the “walking room” of her old 1905 Victorian home — the one with creaky floors and lace curtains that always smelled faintly of cedar and coffee.

We kids were a little scared of it. The carved face on the back — part man, part lion — seemed to glare right through us. Some of us were curious enough to want to sit in it or lift the seat to see what was inside, but Grandma was very strict: no kids touched that chair.

When she moved into Green Acres in Manistee around 2004, she gave away most of her furniture, but she put this chair up for a family auction. Each of us got to put our name in. I won — or at least, that’s the story I was told.

Now it sits by my front door, just like it did in hers.

For years I never knew much about it. My brother once guessed it might have come from a Masonic lodge or a temple — and with that carved face, it seemed possible. But I remembered Grandma saying no, that it was just “an old hall chair.”

Turns out, after a little research, she was right.

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A Little History of the Monk Chair

The chair’s seat lifts open, revealing a storage compartment — and that’s what confirmed what it was. Today, pieces like this are called hall chairs or entry benches — but back then, they were often known as monk chairs.

The name wasn’t religious in origin; it came from the old English idea of a strong, simple bench you might picture in a monastery. These early chairs appeared in medieval Europe during the 15th and 16th centuries, when furniture was built to last generations and every piece served more than one purpose.

By the Victorian era (mid-to-late 1800s), monk chairs made a full comeback. The Gothic Revival movement swept through England and America, and homeowners loved the medieval look — the carved faces, oak panels, and heavy craftsmanship that gave a sense of permanence and heritage. The monk chair — half storage chest, half throne — fit the era perfectly.

In the United States, Grand Rapids, Michigan, became the center of this style. Starting in the 1880s, the city earned the nickname “Furniture City.” Makers such as Stickley Bros., Limbert, and Berkey & Gay began producing oak hall seats and monk benches inspired by European designs. These pieces were often sold through catalogs and local furniture dealers throughout the Midwest, including small-town shops in Manistee and Ludington.

By the early 1900s, almost every well-furnished Victorian home had something similar: a carved oak chair with a lift-up seat, sitting in the front hallway like a quiet sentry — part furniture, part statement.

I’m speculating here, but I can’t help wondering if my great-great-grandfather Fred Bottrell was the one who brought this one home. He worked as a finisher at the Manistee Manufacturing Company, which made fine wood furniture during that same era. It’s entirely possible the chair came from there — maybe a piece he helped sand, stain, and polish himself, or a “factory second” he bought and carried home after work one day.

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The Carved Face

The carved figure on my chair is what first caught my attention — a stern, almost human expression with a wild mane of curls. It’s most likely a version of the “Green Man,” a face motif found throughout Gothic architecture and revived in Victorian furniture. In folklore, the Green Man symbolized rebirth, protection, and the natural world.

Some versions were gentler; others looked like gargoyles or lions. The idea was that this guardian figure would watch over the house and ward off bad spirits — a comforting thought when you realize where Grandma kept it: right by the front door.

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A Michigan Legacy

There’s no maker’s mark on mine — not inside the seat, underneath, or on the back — which means it was probably built by a small Midwestern workshop rather than a major factory. Grand Rapids had hundreds of such shops between 1890 and 1915, many producing unique or limited pieces.

The wood is quarter-sawn oak, known for its swirling “tiger stripe” grain and durability. Each board would have been hand-cut and carved, giving every piece its own character.

So Grandma was right again. It’s not a Masonic relic or a secret-society chair. It’s simply a piece of late Victorian craftsmanship — practical, heavy, and full of personality — built to stand guard by the doorway of a Michigan home.

Now, more than a century later, that’s exactly what it’s still doing.

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Sources & Further Reading

• Canonbury Antiques. “Why Is It Called a Monk’s Bench?”
  https://canonburyantiques.com/kbd/Why-Is-It-Called-a-Monks-Bench-The-Canonbury-Scoop-On-Oak-Settles-and-Benches

• Anderson, William. The Green Man: Spirit of Nature. HarperCollins, 1990.

• Aldrich, Megan. Gothic Revival Furniture. V&A Publications, 1996.

• Grand Rapids Public Museum. “Furniture City History.”
  https://www.grpmcollections.org/FurnitureCity/

• Bly, John. Identifying Antique Furniture: A Guide to Styles and Makers. Octopus Publishing, 2002.

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Sources & Further Reading

• Canonbury Antiques. “Why Is It Called a Monk’s Bench?”
  https://canonburyantiques.com/kbd/Why-Is-It-Called-a-Monks-Bench-The-Canonbury-Scoop-On-Oak-Settles-and-Benches

• Anderson, William. The Green Man: Spirit of Nature. HarperCollins, 1990.

• Aldrich, Megan. Gothic Revival Furniture. V&A Publications, 1996.

• Grand Rapids Public Museum. “Furniture City History.”
  https://www.grpmcollections.org/FurnitureCity/

• Bly, John. Identifying Antique Furniture: A Guide to Styles and Makers. Octopus Publishing, 2002.

Another In The Room

Another in the Room

I met her at the end of a hard day,
a calm voice in the quiet,
promising warmth without words.

She settles beside me
like a friend who knows too much,
steadying my pulse,
softening the edges of thought.

I tell myself she’s only visiting,
but she lingers,
leaving fingerprints on my mind
and the sweet lie
that peace can be borrowed.

Some nights I swear I’ll walk away.
Some nights I just watch the light
slip through her golden skin
and remember how still the world can be
when I let her stay.

She waits at the edge of the evening,
soft as mercy,
beautiful as forgetting.

She takes my hand without asking,
leans close,
and whispers the quiet I’ve been chasing all day.

With her, I am lighter,
smoother,
someone I almost like again.

But morning knows her better than I do.
She leaves fingerprints on the hours,
a dull ache where warmth used to be,
and promises that fade like smoke.

Still, I choose her —
sometimes over the ones who truly love me —
because she is always there,
the other person in the room,
the other lover
who never says no,
only stay.

She knows the rhythm of my breathing,
the way I reach for comfort
before I even realize I’m cold.
She knows my better intentions
and waits until they sleep.

I tell myself I’m in control,
but she’s patient.
She doesn’t demand —
she invites.
And I fall,
night after night,
into the hush she offers.

At dawn she fades,
leaving me to gather what’s left —
a promise,
a silence,
a self I can barely face.

And yet when evening comes,
I find her again.
She is mercy and mistake,
the warmth I crave
and the wound I keep reopening.

Because for a moment,
she makes me feel whole.

Chapter 4 Taken

 That night, Lance lay curled under his thin blanket, the window cracked open to the warm Michigan air. The soft hiss of crickets drifted in, mixing with the distant hum of trucks on US-10.

His Alupent inhaler rested on the nightstand, white against the dark wood, ready if the tightness came.

Sometime past midnight, sleep pulled him under — heavy and thick. And then, in the dark, came the light.

It wasn’t the moon. It was too white, too sharp. It filled the room, pouring over notebooks and radios and baseball cards.

Hands — or something like hands — touched his shoulders, lifted him weightless. He tried to speak but his voice stayed stuck in his chest. He tried to breathe but the air felt wrong — sweet and cold, like cinnamon and metal.

Shapes moved above him. Soft voices, not English, not anything he knew. He felt warmth behind his ear, a sting like a whisper. Then he was drifting — through the window, into the night sky, the house falling away like a toy below him.

He woke before dawn tangled in sweaty sheets, chest tight, breath shallow. His Alupent was still there on the table. He reached for it, the medicine sharp and bitter on his tongue.

A floorboard creaked in the hall. Bobby’s sleepy voice drifted through the door. “You up, Lance?”

Lance stared at the ceiling. Maybe it was just a dream.

But he could still taste cinnamon.

Chapter 3 The Whisper from Above

Far above, the ship Alton One drifted silently in orbit, its hull gleaming white and smooth like the inside of a seashell. Inside its heart, Tsatso sat alone in the vast control room — his cage, his post, his only link to the planet spinning below.

One entire wall was a massive window, wider than any Earth house. Through it, Tsatso could see the curve of the blue Earth, cloud bands drifting slowly like breath over water. He sometimes wondered if the humans down there ever looked up and felt him watching back.

The air smelled faintly of cinnamon — a leftover trick of the Alton Guard’s old designs, meant to keep the mind calm on long shifts. Now it was just a ghost of warmth in this cold nest of screens and humming panels.

Rows of holographic monitors flickered all around him, each one displaying tiny moving lives — highways full of blinking cars, cities that glowed like circuits, quiet neighborhoods like Lance’s little street in Scottville. Lance’s feed was always near the center. Tsatso liked it that way. He had been tasked, long ago, to monitor thousands of people. But Lance Goodman — small, shy, lungs too tight for his age — was the one he watched closest.

He had met the boy many times, though Lance wouldn’t fully remember — not properly. The protocols required an amnesia injection after each contact, to keep the Alton Guard’s secret work hidden. Tsatso had done it. Mostly. But sometimes — when Lance’s tiny hand clutched his finger in the sterile craft, or when the boy’s eyes fluttered open too soon — Tsatso had hesitated. A half dose. A slip. A wish of his own.

Now he was trapped here — the last loyal Alton watcher locked in his control room, while the Sassa Guard stalked the ship’s outer corridors like wolves waiting for the door to fail. It hadn’t always been this way. Alton One was built for protection — a silent guardian drifting above a noisy world, meant to steer away threats before humans ever knew they were in danger. That was the Alton promise.

But the War of the Corridors had changed that. The Sassa Guard found the cracks, forced their way in, turned the outer decks into their hunting ground. Tsatso had sealed himself inside this nerve center — this single room of blinking consoles, memory needles, and the great window where Earth hovered close enough to touch.

He closed his pale eyes, shaped like slivers of glass. Through the chip behind Lance’s ear, he heard the boy’s thoughts like distant radio static. He heard the stifled coughs, the shaky breaths when Lance’s small white inhaler ran dry, the tiny dreams that slipped out when the boy forgot to guard them.

“You’re not alone,” Tsatso whispered to the cold humming dark. “I’m here. I will always be here.”

Below, Lance dreamed — or half-remembered — cold metal beds, bright lights, and the warm sting behind his ear. The sweet-bitter scent of cinnamon drifted between them both, like a secret promise the invaders hadn’t stolen yet.

The fight for Earth — and the boy — was far from over.

Chapter 2 Brothers and Baseball

“Hey, Lance, you coming outside?” Bobby called from the front porch, tossing a baseball in the air.

Lance looked up from his notebook, where he’d been sketching strange shapes and symbols. The warm summer air drifted in through the cracked window, carrying the smell of fresh-cut grass and faint exhaust from the highway.

“Not now,” Lance muttered, adjusting his glasses.

“Come on! David’s waiting.” Bobby was older by a year and more confident — he had the easy smile and the strong hands that made him a natural leader.

David appeared behind Bobby, grinning wide. “We need you, man. You’re our secret weapon.”

Lance sighed but stood, slipping his white Alupent inhaler into his pocket before following them out. The warm air made his chest tighten, but he didn’t say anything.

Outside, the sun warmed the cracked driveway. Bobby tossed the ball to David, who caught it easily. Lance felt the inhaler press against his leg — it made him feel safer, like a tiny shield no one could see.

“So, you believe in that radio stuff?” David teased, nudging Lance’s shoulder.

“I do,” Lance said, eyes serious. “I think there’s something out there listening. I just have to figure out how to talk to it right.”

“Sounds crazy,” David laughed, but there was no real mockery in his voice.

Bobby threw the ball to Lance. “Crazy or not, you’ve got heart. Let’s see what you can do.”

Lance caught the ball clumsily but smiled. For a moment, he forgot about the chip behind his ear, the whispers at night, and the dreams he couldn’t quite explain. 

📚 WISHED AWAY: THE ALTON ONE CHRONICLES Chapter 1: The Boy at the window

Manistee, Michigan.

Lance Goodman sat cross-legged on the thin carpet in the far left bedroom at the end of the hallway — his room. The house was old, creaking under the weight of wind off Lake Michigan. His room smelled like old socks and pencil shavings, but it was his place.

At ten years old, Lance was small for his age, with brown hair that stuck up in the back and glasses that always slid down his nose when he read. The room was crowded — not with toys, but with odd things: broken CB radios, a hand-built crystal radio set, coils of wire strung along the baseboards. Near the west window, facing the lake, a wooden desk held a battered ham radio console his dad bought at a yard sale. Next to it: spiral notebooks stacked crooked, each one jammed with messy notes — dates, times, dreams, words he couldn’t explain.

Sometimes, when he looked around, he thought his room felt like a little spaceship — wires and screens, notes and knobs, like a secret command center he’d never seen but somehow knew how to build. He didn’t know where he got the ideas for it all. He just did.

One wall was covered in baseball cards, thumbtacked in neat rows. His favorite was the rookie Alan Trammell. Lance looked at that card a lot — the young Tigers team was finally looking like something special.

But the real shrine was by the south window. There, taped to the glass, was a spiderweb of copper wire and aluminum foil, shaped like an antenna. It looked ridiculous. But Lance believed. He knew — somehow — that if he talked just right into his old mic, something up there would hear him.

He crawled to the desk, put on the big headphones that made his ears sweat, and flicked the console on. The soft green glow lit up his glasses. Beside the mic sat his small white Alupent inhaler — always within reach when his chest got tight.

He took a breath. “Tsatso. I know you’re there. It’s Lance. It’s me. I remember.”

Outside, the wind rustled the big maple tree by the driveway. Somewhere down the hall, his little brother Tony babbled in his sleep.

Lance pressed the transmit button. Static hissed. But in that static, if he closed his eyes… he could almost smell it. Cinnamon.

Chapter 7: Into the unknown

As we stepped into the backyard, the June sun warmed us, the air thick with the scent of fresh grass and wildflowers. The sky stretched impossibly blue—clear and bright—dotted with soft, cotton-like clouds drifting lazily across the horizon. A light, warm breeze whispered through the trees, brushing our faces with the smell of pine and damp earth. The world felt alive, vibrant—yet there was an undeniable weight pressing down. Something was coming. We were on the edge of something big.

My thoughts turned to Tony. He was small, barely keeping up. I knew he couldn’t last much longer at this pace, but before I could say anything, Bobby was already there. With one swift motion, he scooped Tony into his arms. It felt like a movie moment—Bobby shouting, “Run!”—but no words were needed. The urgency hung in the air, thick and unspoken. We just knew.

We bolted through Andy’s yard, tall grass brushing our legs, and plunged into the woods. This forest was familiar—a sanctuary where we’d played countless times—but the part behind Andy’s house was less so. Dan and Andy, not with us today, knew it better. As we ran, trees, shrubs, and dirt blurred together. Bobby, David, and I knew a trail lay hidden somewhere, but doubt gnawed at me.

Bobby came to an abrupt stop, scanning the ground for any sign of the path. My heart pounded. Had we missed it? If so, we’d have to push on through the maze of trees until we found it again—maybe a mile or more. Just as panic rose, Bobby’s head snapped eastward. Without a word, he took off, and we followed.

The trail curved east, then south for a while, before bending east again about a mile down. Soon, we were on the old path toward the back of Dad’s ten acres. Relief washed over me as the familiar trail stretched out. We raced past hay bales with worn, crooked targets—once bright and fresh, now weathered by summers, winters, and countless storms. The air was thick with earth and decaying leaves, mingled with the faint musk of wild animals hidden in the brush.

It had been a long run to reach the clearing where the trail split. We could have turned left, north, toward our house. But that was exactly what we were running from, so we turned right, heading south—away from everything.

Thankfully, the path remained familiar. As it narrowed, trees closed in, forming a tunnel. Shadows danced in my peripheral vision, playing tricks on my mind, but I kept my eyes locked on Bobby. He barely hesitated before choosing the southern route, his stride steady despite Tony’s weight in his arms.

The urgency that had driven us since the backyard remained unspoken but palpable, pushing us forward. Each step brought us closer to something unknown—a moment we couldn’t see but could feel just ahead. There was no turning back.

Well, not exactly. We knew where the trail led. We were familiar with this place. When Mom took summer naps, Bobby, David, and I often snuck off here—sometimes too far. Once, we reached an old dump with a tar pit, animal skeletons jutting from the black surface. The way back was long and heavy that day.

As we neared the house, we spotted Mom in the distance, yelling something that spelled trouble. But when she saw how well we got along, she softened. Later, she told friends she couldn’t scold us.

The woods thickened around us, the path winding deeper, our footsteps softened by dense foliage. Ahead, the trail curved toward the hilltop—my hilltop. We came here in winter to sled or ski, the steep slope perfect for breathless rides. But in quiet moments, I came alone to breathe.

Today, I wasn’t alone.

The path veered left, rising to the clearing. Summer had transformed the hill. Snow was gone, replaced by lush grass swaying in the breeze. Beyond it, the pond caught sunlight in gold streaks. The distant hills lay in shadowy layers, soft and still.

We crested the rise, and the breeze met us—peaceful, familiar. But something had shifted.

Bobby, walking ahead, moved faster, like he wanted this over. The tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes flicked over his shoulder, showed he didn’t want to be here. He searched for a reason to turn back—but the pull forward was stronger.

“Why are we doing this, man?” Bobby muttered, voice thick with frustration. “We don’t even know what’s out there. We should stay put. This whole thing’s getting too weird.”

I stopped. At first, he didn’t notice, his footsteps carrying him further down the trail, carefully balancing Tony. When he saw I’d paused, he retraced his steps, face tight with confusion.

I pointed southeast, over the pond, toward the distant hills. “That’s where we have to go. I don’t know how I know it, but I do.”

He looked, knowing what lay there—more hills, paths, and the old Manistee junkyard with its tar pits.

“But why? What makes you so sure?”

He set Tony down, who wandered over to pluck a big leaf from a nearby tree.

My throat tightened, heart hammering. For a moment, words failed me. Then they came, unbidden.

“I had a dream last night,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “Maybe it wasn’t just a dream.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow but stayed silent.

“I was on a spaceship. There was this alien—Tsatso. Different, not like the others.” I paused. “He smelled… nice. Like cinnamon. Warm. He wasn’t scary. I felt safe with him. But there were other aliens too. They were probing me. I was on a white bed, completely exposed.”

I swallowed hard. “It was strange. Sometimes the dream was good—when Tsatso was there. Other times, bad—when I was being probed. I always thought it was just a recurring dream. But now, with everything happening, I think it was real. That ship from my dream… it’s close. Over that hill. I can feel it.”

David caught up, panting. “What do you mean, you can feel it?”

Bobby stared like I’d lost my mind. “You’re telling me you’ve been abducted? Now you want us to go find them? That’s the plan?”

But David’s eyes locked on me—intense, believing.

“Maybe it’s the only way,” David said softly. “If the aliens are after you, we need to find them before they find us.”

Bobby crossed his arms, shaking his head. “You guys are nuts. We’re supposed to walk through the woods because of a dream?”

“We’re not just walking,” David said sharply. “We’re looking for something. Something important.”

A faint hum reached my ears—like distant thunder but steadier. My heart skipped. The sound grew louder, a vibration in the air I could feel in my chest.

“Did you hear that?” I whispered, tight with anticipation.

Bobby stiffened, eyes narrowing. “No way… That’s the ship. It’s out there.”

He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

Relief flooded me. He wasn’t convinced, but he was with us.

We moved again, feet crunching over twigs and flattened grass. The hill sloped into a hollow where a two-track carved through weeds. Near the path stood an old archery target—faded, leaning, half-swallowed by shrubs. A scruffy pine pressed in from the side—maybe new, maybe not even there before.

In the distance, about a quarter mile beyond the hill’s base, lay the pond.

Small and round, ringed by open clay and weeds. A few old tires lay half-buried near its edge, echoes of another time. The two-track bent lazily around the pond’s far side.

We followed silently.

On the other side, we pushed onward—another quarter mile across open ground—until we reached the base of the next hill.

We’d climbed it years ago. We knew what awaited: a clearing, some stumps, old debris from forgotten projects. But this time felt different. The air had shifted.

Maybe it was our imaginations—stirred by the flash, the hum, the memory of what we thought we saw. But something inside said probably not.

We started up the hill.

My heart hammered harder with every step. The two-track was still there, faint but steady, cutting through brush and dirt. Neither of us spoke, but I knew they felt it too—that creeping sense that we were walking into the unknown.

And we weren’t turning back.

I just got caught in a lie! OOPS!!!

Well, our office is currently in a closet. To get to it, you have to walk through the X-ray waiting area. So, as I entered the lobby, a patient in the waiting room cornered me.

"Are you X-ray?" he asked.

"No," I replied.

"Well, I’ve been waiting longer than everyone else here, and I still haven’t been called. I have a doctor’s appointment soon."

Gulp. What was I supposed to say? I wanted to ignore him, slip into the RT Cave, and take a break. But he had me cornered, and I felt pressure to respond.

"Um, I’ll go check," I said.

So I left the lobby… and went straight to the bathroom. Took my time. Putzed around the hall afterward, hoping he’d be gone when I came back.

No such luck. He was still there.

"Well? Are they coming?" he asked.

"Uh, your name is on the list. They should be out shortly."

He gave me a skeptical look. "I didn’t even tell you my name. How could you know it was on the list?"

Doh! Can’t win them all. Just another reason why we need to move the RT Cave out of the lobby—away from patients.

Chapter 7: Into the Unknown

As we stepped out into the backyard, the warmth of the June sun hit us, the air thick with the scent of fresh grass and wildflowers. The sky was impossibly blue, clear and bright, dotted with soft, cotton-like clouds drifting lazily across the horizon. A light but warm breeze whispered through the trees and brushed against our faces, carrying with it the smell of pine and damp earth. The world felt alive, vibrant, yet there was an undeniable weight in the air. It felt like something was coming, like we were on the edge of something big.

My thoughts immediately turned to Tony. He was so small, barely able to keep up with the rest of us. I knew he couldn’t maintain the pace for long, but before I could say anything, Bobby was already there. With one swift motion, he scooped Tony up, lifting him effortlessly into his arms. It was like something straight out of a movie—this would be the part where Bobby would shout, “Run!” But in reality, we didn’t need words. The urgency hung in the air like a thick fog, unspoken but understood. We didn’t need instructions; we just knew.

We bolted through Andy’s yard, the tall grass brushing against our legs, and into the woods. This forest was familiar—a sanctuary where we played countless times—but the part directly behind Andy’s house was less so, at least to me. Dan and Andy, who weren’t with us, would have known it better. As we rushed in, every tree, shrub, and dirt patch seemed to blend into one indistinguishable blur. Bobby, David, and I all knew there was a trail somewhere back here, but for a moment, doubt gnawed at me.

Bobby came to an abrupt stop, his eyes scanning the ground as though searching for the faintest sign of the path. My heart pounded as I wondered if we had run right past it. If so, we’d have to keep pushing forward through the maze of trees until we picked it up further back—likely a mile or more. Just as panic began to rise, Bobby’s head snapped eastward. Without a word, he took off, and we followed close behind.

The trail started heading east, then turned south for quite a while before curving back east about a mile down. Soon we found ourselves on the old trail that led toward the back of Dad’s ten acres. Relief washed over me as the familiar path stretched out before us. We raced down it, past hay bales with worn, dilapidated targets leaning at odd angles. Once bright and fresh, they had been weathered by seasons of summer heat, winter snow, and countless rainstorms. The air was thick with the earthy scent of decaying leaves and damp soil, mingled with the faint musk of wild animals hidden in the underbrush.

It had been a long run to reach the opening where the trail split in two. When we finally arrived, we could have turned left, heading north toward our house. But that was exactly what we were trying to escape, so instead, we turned right, heading south—away from everything.

Thankfully, the path was still familiar. As the trail narrowed, the trees on either side closed in, forming a tunnel. Shadows danced in my peripheral vision, playing tricks on my mind, but I kept my eyes locked on Bobby. He barely hesitated before choosing the southern route, his determined stride unrelenting despite the weight of Tony in his arms.

The urgency that had driven us since we left the backyard remained unspoken but palpable, propelling us forward. Each step brought us closer to something—an unknown destination, a moment we couldn’t yet see but could feel just ahead. We didn’t know exactly what we would find at the end of the trail, but we knew there was no turning back.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true—we did know where the trail led. We were very familiar with this area. When Mom took her summer naps, Bobby, David, and I would sneak off for walks out here, often without her knowing. Once, we went too far, all the way to an old dump. There was a tar pit there, with animal skeletons jutting out of its black surface. The way back home that day was long and daunting, every step heavier than the last.

As we approached the house, we spotted a faint figure in the distance—Mom. She was yelling something, and we were sure we were in big trouble. But when we finally got close, she saw how well we had been getting along. Later, as she retold the story to friends one evening, she said she just didn’t have the heart to scold us.

The path ahead came to an end, curving from the south to the east. If we followed it to the left, it led to the hill. In the winter, it had been our favorite spot to ski or sled. High and steep, it was the perfect slope for long, exhilarating rides, especially when the icy surface sent us sliding far beyond the base. Now, in June, the hill looked different. Its grassy slope rose gently, leading into a clearing where the lush grass swayed in the breeze. Beyond it, the faint glimmer of water—our pond—reflected the sunlight in golden streaks. The hills in the distance were layered in soft shadow, their contours fading into the horizon. It was peaceful, serene, yet something about the place felt heavy, significant—like we weren’t just passing through but were meant to be here.

Bobby, walking ahead, moved faster, like he wanted to get this over with. I could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes kept flicking over his shoulder. I knew he didn’t want to be out here, away from Andy’s house. He was looking for a reason to turn back, but the pull forward was stronger than the pull to go home.

“Why are we doing this, man?” Bobby muttered, his voice thick with frustration. “We don’t even know what’s out there. We should be staying put. This whole thing’s getting too weird.”

I stopped walking, and at first, he didn’t notice. His footsteps carried him further down the trail until he began descending the steep hill, carefully balancing Tony in his arms. When he realized I had paused, he turned back, retracing his steps up the hill. His face was tight with confusion.

I pointed to the southeast, over the pond and toward the distant hills. "That’s where we have to go. I don’t know how I know it, but I do," I said.

He turned to look where I had pointed. He knew what was over there—more hills, more paths, and, eventually, the old Manistee junkyard with its tar pits. "But I don’t get it. What makes you so sure?"

He set Tony down, and Tony immediately wandered over to a small tree, plucking a big leaf from one of its branches.

I swallowed, my throat tight, my heart hammering in my chest. For a moment, I wasn’t sure what to say. But then, the words just came out, unbidden.

“I— I had a dream last night,” I said, my voice more steady than I felt. “Maybe it wasn’t just a dream. I don’t know.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt.

“I—I was on a spaceship. There was this alien, Tsatso. He was different, not like the others.” I paused, unsure of how to explain what I felt. “It smelled... nice. Like cinnamon. Or something warm. And he wasn’t scary. I felt safe with him. But there were other aliens, too. They were probing me, and I was on a white bed, completely exposed.”

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my voice. “It was strange, but... I think it was real. I always thought it was just a recurring dream—sometimes a good dream, like when Tsatso was in it. But other times, it was a bad dream, like when I was being probed. I don’t know how to explain it, but I think it happened. I didn’t really think it was real until today. Before, I thought maybe it was just a weird dream... but now, with everything going on, it feels like it wasn’t just in my head. Like it really happened. And I think that ship—the one from my dream—is close. It’s over that hill. I can feel it.”

“What do you mean, you can feel it?” David asked, catching up with me and Bobby, panting slightly from the run.

Bobby stared at me like I had completely lost my mind, his face unreadable. “You’re telling me you’ve been abducted by aliens? And now you’re saying we should go find them? You think that’s the plan?”

But David... his eyes were fixed on me with a kind of intensity. There was something in the way he looked at me—like he believed me.

David, however, stepped up beside me, his voice soft but firm. “Maybe it’s the only way to figure this out. If the aliens are after you, we need to find them before they find us.”

Bobby crossed his arms, shaking his head in disbelief. “You guys are nuts. Seriously. We’re just supposed to go walking through the woods because of some weird dream?”

“We’re not just walking through the woods,” David said, his voice a little sharper now. “We’re looking for something. Something important.”

A faint hum reached my ears, almost like the distant rumble of thunder, but it was steady—too steady. My heart skipped a beat. The sound was growing louder, a vibration in the air that I could almost feel in my chest.

“Did you hear that?” I whispered, my voice tight with anticipation.

Bobby stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he listened, his gaze flicking around the trees. “No way... That’s the ship. It’s out there.”

He stopped, then sighed, shoulders slumping. “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

I felt a wave of relief. He wasn’t fully convinced, but he was with us. We were moving forward.

The woods were thick around us, the path winding deeper into the trees, the sound of our footsteps muted by the dense foliage. Just ahead, the trail curved toward my favorite spot—the hilltop. A place where I always came to think, to breathe. And today, it felt different. The air felt heavier, charged with something I couldn’t explain.

The hum was getting louder, closer now. Every step felt more urgent, like we were approaching something inevitable, something bigger than any of us.

Bobby gave a reluctant nod, and we pressed on toward the hill. The distant hum reverberated in my chest as we drew closer.

“Let’s just hope this doesn’t end with us being probed again,” Bobby muttered, his voice laced with sarcasm, but there was no humor in it.

I grinned, the sound of his joke a strange comfort as we walked forward, the hum pulling us onward. We were doing this. No matter how insane it seemed, we were going to find out what was waiting for us. The aliens were waiting.

Wished Away: Beneath the Stars: Chapter 6

David, Bobby, and I stood in silence, our eyes fixed on the window. The sky, once filled with the steady hum of aircraft, now stretched above us in eerie calm. There were no planes, no ships—only an empty void, the vast expanse seeming to mock the chaos below. The air felt dense, suffused with the aftershock of whatever had just happened, thick with a silence that settled over everything like a blanket. Distant screams filtered through the quiet, faint and disembodied, reminders of the destruction that had unfolded. Across the street, the house that had once been full of life was now a heap of charred rubble. Its skeletal frame was barely standing, twisted metal and broken wood jutting out from the pile. And yet, despite the destruction, the world outside appeared strangely normal, as if time had simply paused but not ended.

Tony clutched his army man tightly in one hand, his thumb resting in his mouth as he stood by the window, eyes wide. The toy had always been his comfort, even before all this started. Right now, it seemed like the only thing keeping him grounded in the chaos. He didn’t say anything, but his small form—so still in the middle of all this madness—spoke volumes. Tony didn’t understand what was going on, but he knew enough to be scared. And in his own way, he was trying to hold onto something that still felt safe.

David broke the tension first, his voice sharp and light, trying to cut through the suffocating seriousness. “Well, that was fun,” he said, looking around with a wry grin. “And it’s such a coincidence that all our parents aren’t around to witness this,” he added, motioning to the wreckage and chaos. “Talk about bad timing, huh?”

I couldn’t help but let out a breath, the nervous energy in my chest lightened just a little by his words. That was David. He was the joker, the one who always had something funny to say—even when the world was falling apart.

When we were little, David and I would sleep in the same room. We’d play with our Hot Wheels long after Mom thought we were asleep, and David would crack jokes, do funny impressions, or just fart to make me laugh. No matter how bad my asthma was, no matter how tight my chest felt, David always knew how to get me to smile.

There were so many memories like that. Like the time we were at Grandma’s house and ended up walking to 6:30 p.m. mass together, even though we could’ve skipped it. It was a half-hour mass, and we never really thought about avoiding it. We’d walk there side by side, making jokes along the way. But when we got to church, David, in his usual fashion, would do something goofy—like let out a fart just as the priest started his sermon.

We'd try to keep it together, but it was impossible. We’d both start laughing uncontrollably, and I remember one time, the old man sitting in front of us turned around and asked, “What’s so funny?” That just made us laugh harder.

And even now, in the middle of all this chaos, David was still trying to make me laugh, still trying to find something to make the unbearable seem just a little bit lighter. It was his way of coping, and for me, it was like breathing again. David was always there to remind me that not everything in life had to be so serious.

A brief, nervous laugh escaped me, but it didn’t last. The weight of the situation quickly returned, and I was reminded that this wasn’t just some nightmare we’d wake up from. This was real.

Bobby, though, wasn’t smiling. His jaw was clenched, his gaze distant, focused on something only he could see. Then, without warning, he turned to us, his voice cutting through the air with determination.

“No more distractions,” Bobby said, his tone sharp, authoritative. “We’re not here to stand around and make jokes. We need a plan. Andy and Dan are gone. We can’t afford to waste time.”

His words were like a cold splash of water to the face. There was no room for hesitation, no more jokes. Bobby had shed his uncertainty. He had taken charge, as the older brother rightfully should. Although the irony wasn’t lost on me—just a couple of days ago, he was on top of me, pounding on my back, laughing as if nothing serious ever happened, all while Mom and Dad had gone out to eat. And here we were, relying on him to lead us.

It hit me harder than I expected. Bobby had been the one to pick on me, the one who had pushed me around when life felt safe and predictable. Now, we needed him to lead us through the chaos. It was strange, a flip of the world I hadn’t asked for but couldn’t avoid. The weight of responsibility sat heavy on him, but it was clear—he wasn’t backing down.

“Let’s go,” Bobby said, his voice low and firm. There was no sign of the brother who once teased me; instead, there was a man who understood the gravity of the situation. He wasn’t just our older brother anymore. He was our leader.

And we had no choice but to follow.

“ But We better not start moving just yet,” Bobby said, his voice steady, cutting through the air with clarity. “We need to get our bearings, figure out what the hell is going on. And yeah, those things are probably gone for now, but there’s no guarantee they won’t be back. We can’t afford to sit around and wait for them to show up again, but we also can’t rush into anything. Stay put, stay hidden, and we survive this—together.”

He paused by the window, his eyes slowly drifting upward, searching the sky as though hoping for a sign, waiting for them to return. Outside, people were scattered across the street, some with their heads tilted back, their eyes locked on the emptiness above. A few shuffled aimlessly, as if caught between disbelief and a desperate search for answers, their faces etched with confusion and fear. The house across the street, once a symbol of warmth and familiarity, now lay in ruin. The debris seemed to tell its own story: shattered windows, walls torn away, and the roof caved in as though something immense had come down with brutal force, tossing the building aside like a child’s toy. A small crowd gathered in front, some pointing at the wreckage, others pacing, calling out to loved ones whose voices could no longer be heard.

"And, honestly, I still don't get it. They were here one minute, and then gone the next. Just like that. That doesn't sit right with me," Bobby muttered, his eyes scanning the chaos. "I can't help but think we’re missing something... maybe they’re watching us. Waiting for something."

His words struck me harder than I expected, but what got me thinking more than anything was how easily they had disappeared. It felt off, like there was something we didn’t understand about them. And as I watched my brothers, the thought lingered—maybe it was time to share with them my secret, the one I had kept buried for far too long.

Suddenly, a siren wailed in the distance, slicing through the stillness. Then another. And another. The chaotic symphony of emergency vehicles—ambulances, fire trucks, police cars—grew louder, each one racing down Merkey Road. The sound was suffocating, a reminder that the world outside was a storm of confusion, panic, and fear.

I turned and glanced out the window next to Bobby, catching sight of the chaos unfolding. People were scrambling, shouting, running—voices filled with uncertainty. Footsteps pounded the ground, and I could hear someone crying out for help. The weight of it all pressed in on us, and my mind raced. We didn’t need to be caught up in this. Not now. Not with the chaos still fresh and the danger still unknown.

Bobby grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out of view from the window.

Just as my heart began to hammer against my chest, a sharp knock echoed through the door—loud, commanding, and impossible to ignore. A voice followed, cutting through the silence.

Tony was still standing behind the curtain, too close to the window, unaware of the danger outside. His thumb was in his mouth, and his little army man was tightly gripped in his hand. I rushed over, yanked him away from the window, and positioned him in front of the door to keep us hidden. My heart pounded as I followed David and Bobby into the kitchen, desperate to stay out of sight—not just from the police, but from anything else that could be out there, like the aliens who might decide to check back in on us.

I froze. The tension in my body spiked. Bobby’s eyes met mine, and I knew we were thinking the same thing. The police. The last thing we needed was to get caught up in whatever chaos was unfolding outside. We had no idea what was happening beyond Merkey Road, but we sure as hell didn’t want to be dragged into it.

Panic hit me in a wave. Crap. Hopefully, he didn’t spot us while we were at the window. But then again, he was calling out, “Anyone inside?” Maybe we were still hidden. Tony, oblivious, was standing just behind the curtain, thankfully out of view. His thumb still in his mouth, his army man clutched tightly in his other hand, lost in his own world. I pulled him away from the curtain and close to me, positioning him in front of the door to keep us out of sight. My heart raced as I followed David and Bobby into the kitchen, trying to stay as far out of view as possible. We needed to keep a low profile—not just from the police, but from anything else that could be lurking, like the aliens who might decide to check back in on us.

David, as if reading my mind, glanced toward the door nervously, then back to Bobby. “What do we do?” he whispered, voice tight.

Bobby’s gaze never wavered from the door. “We don’t open it. We don’t talk to them. We don’t get caught up in whatever the hell is going on out there. We get out, and we keep moving.”

His words were firm, and I could see the resolve in his eyes. This wasn’t just some teenage fear. This was real. We weren’t ready to face whatever the police might bring. We weren’t ready to get stuck in a mess we couldn’t control.

David cracked a smile, his usual grin breaking through the tension like sunlight through clouds. “So, we’re just gonna walk into the unknown? Sounds like the beginning of a really bad action movie.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, forcing a grin as I shook my head. “You’re right. It’s like one bad movie after another. But, seriously, we gotta go?”

“Follow me, and keep it tight,” Bobby ordered. “We move fast, no looking back. We survive this—together.”

We followed him to the back of the house, out the back door. Bobby peered around the corner, his eyes scanning the yard. I stepped up next to him and peered through the window of the backyard. A swing set sat in the middle of the yard, the grass a little too long, and the dirt under the swing was worn smooth—evidence of countless kids swinging through summers long past.

Wished Away: Beneath the Stars: Chapter 5

We scrambled out of the fort, the rusted ladder creaking beneath us as we made our way up to the trapdoor. The thick forest above felt like a sanctuary compared to the damp, musty air of the underground. My chest still burned with each breath, the wheeze fading only slightly as I sucked in the fresh air. Tony, still sniffling, held my hand tightly, his small fingers trembling.

Bobby was the first out—fittingly, as he was the oldest, perhaps even the bravest (other than Dan, who wasn’t here). The beam of his flashlight cut through the evening gloom. The woods felt unnaturally still, the usual hum of insects and rustling leaves absent, replaced by the unsettling hum of the craft in the distance. We couldn’t see it, but we could hear it, faint and low, like the growl of some distant predator circling, searching for something—or someone.

“We need to move, now,” Bobby whispered urgently, his voice tight with fear.

I turned to look at the others. "You think it's still looking for us?"

“Of course it is," David muttered. "It saw us run, didn’t it?"

"Then what do we do?" Bobby asked, his eyes wide, face pale.

I didn’t have an answer. I wanted to say something to calm them, to convince myself that we’d be okay, but the truth was, I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that the woods seemed like the safest place to be right now, and we needed to get as far away from the fort—and that plane—as possible.

But there was another problem. The figure that had been chasing us earlier. I kept looking over my shoulder, half-expecting to see it lurking in the shadows. Had it gone back to the craft? Or was it still out there, moving quietly through the trees, waiting for the right moment to strike? We didn’t know, and that was almost worse than the plane itself.

Then there was Dan. I couldn’t stop wondering if he and Andy had seen this plane—or something like it. Would they believe us? Or had they experienced something weird themselves? We didn’t know where they were, but I could only hope they were safe, far away from whatever had come down on us.

“Let’s head for Andy’s house,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Maybe the aliens won’t know we’d go there—hopefully.”

The others nodded, though none of us seemed to believe the words I said. Tony clung to me, his thumb back in his mouth as we slipped between the trees, keeping our heads down and moving as quietly as possible.

But as we made our way through the dense woods, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t alone. The air around us seemed to hum, almost vibrating with a strange energy, and I could swear I saw shadows flickering at the edges of my vision. The craft above us was still out there, its low hum still present, but we couldn’t see it. And in the distance, there was something else—voices? Soft, indistinguishable murmurs drifting through the trees. It sounded like more of them. More of whatever had been chasing us.

It wasn’t just hunting us—it was hunting for something. And we had no idea what we were about to get caught up in. Or, said another way, what we were ALREADY caught up in. 

---

We walked through the woods toward Andy’s house, every step feeling like an eternity. The hum of the hovercraft—or whatever it was—hung in the air, an eerie sound that made my skin crawl. At times, it sounded closer, and we’d freeze, ducking behind trees or crouching low to the ground, trying to calm our panic as the sound seemed to move toward us. Then, just as suddenly, it would fade into the distance, and we’d keep moving, heartbeats pounding in our ears.

The deeper we went, the more unsettling it became. I couldn’t stop thinking about the voices we’d heard earlier. Had they been other people, or something else? Were we being watched from the shadows, waiting for us to make a mistake?

Finally, we reached the edge of the woods, where the tree line broke open into a row of houses along Merkey Road. The houses here were smaller, simpler, with overgrown lawns and aging fences. Andy’s house stood at the end, a two-story frame with peeling white paint and a front porch that sagged slightly to one side. It looked normal enough—nothing special, but in that moment, it felt like a sanctuary. We rushed to the front door, my hand shaking as I knocked.

Andy opened it after a moment, his eyes scanning us quickly before his expression turned serious.

"Whoa," he said, stepping back. "You guys okay?"

Andy was the same age as Dan, both of them about four years younger than me. He had blonde, curly hair and was wearing a dark blue T-shirt that fit snugly against his frame, a contrast to the usual loose clothes he favored. His serious expression made it clear that whatever was happening, it wasn’t a joke. Andy was sharp, not one to crack jokes in a tense situation. He stepped aside to let us in.

"We—we need to talk," I said, my voice hoarse.

"Are your parents home?" I asked, glancing inside.

"Nah, they’re at work," Andy said, shutting the door behind us. "They won’t be back for a while."

Behind him, Dan stepped into view. He was tall and lanky, wearing a faded tank top that barely fit right, and his usual goofy grin was nowhere to be found. Dan always had this carefree, almost goofy vibe—like nothing in the world could throw him off. His long arms were covered in the sort of scars you got from roughhousing with friends or falling off bikes. But now, his eyes were serious, scanning each of us for clues.

"You guys look like you just saw a ghost," Dan said, his usual smirk gone. He looked over at Andy, who gave him a look before turning back to us.

"We saw something... in the woods. A craft. And someone—or something—was chasing us," I said, taking a deep breath to steady myself.

Andy frowned, his face falling into a serious expression. "A craft? What do you mean, like an airplane or something?"

"Not exactly," Bobby said, stepping forward, his voice shaky. "It didn’t look like any plane I’ve ever seen. There was only one wing, and it spun in the sky like it was searching for something."

Dan raised an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Andy. "What are you talking about? Like, UFO stuff?"

I nodded, but before anyone could respond, Andy cut in. "Wait, hold on. Did you hear about that businessman who went missing? They think maybe his plane crashed into Lake Michigan. It was there, over Lake Michigan, then it was... gone. It was on the front page of the Manistee News Advocate and on the radio this morning, but they don’t know. Search crews, the Coast Guard, and others are out looking, but they haven’t found anything."

"What?" I asked, confused. "You think that has something to do with... this?"

"We're not sure," Andy said, rubbing the back of his neck. "But it’s strange, right? The plane disappeared without a trace. No wreckage. And no one knows where it went. Some think it went down in the lake. Others think it was something else."

I glanced at Bobby, my stomach twisting. Could the missing plane and what we saw in the sky really be connected?  It seemed too much of a coincidence. And if it was, what did it all mean?

"But Mom said they 'suspected' the plane crashed into the lake," I added, my voice quieter now. "Or at least, I think that’s what she said. It’s like even they don’t know for sure."

Andy nodded slowly. "Exactly. That’s what makes it so strange. I mean, that’s what we saw on TV. But, you know, it’s weird. The lake’s huge. Could be anywhere."

Dan and Andy had already been filled in on the details of what happened to us today—our encounter with the strange craft and the voices in the woods. They listened intently, but I could see the doubt in their eyes. The idea of something otherworldly seemed far-fetched to them, but I could tell they were trying to make sense of it.

The idea of a missing plane was almost too much to take in. Could it really be the same thing that we’d just seen? Could the strange craft above us be part of something bigger? I didn’t know, but it felt like everything was starting to connect in ways I didn’t fully understand.

"We saw the craft again on the way here," I said, my voice trembling. "It’s out there. And there’s something else—people, or... something else, chasing us. We have to figure this out before they find us."

Dan and Andy exchanged worried looks, but they didn’t have any answers. All we could do was wait and hope we were safe—at least for now.

Then, without warning, it happened. A loud, very, very loud noise, like something massive crashing into the earth. The reverberations rattled the windows of Andy's house even worse than they had done at our house earlier. The entire house seemed to shudder with the impact, and my heart skipped a beat. The sound was so intense that for a moment, I couldn’t move—couldn’t think.

Bobby, Tony, and David stood frozen, their faces drained of color. Even Dan and Andy looked visibly shaken, their eyes wide as they stared at the windows, waiting for something else to happen.

"What the hell was that?" Bobby finally managed to whisper, his voice barely audible over the ringing in my ears.

"I don't know," I said, my voice barely a breath. "But it’s too close."

Outside, the night felt even heavier, the air thick with tension. I glanced at the others, trying to gauge their reactions, but no one seemed to have an answer. What was out there? What had just happened?

Andy was the first to break the silence, his voice low and urgent. "We need to get out of here. Now."

The rest of us nodded in agreement, the fear and uncertainty settling in as we hurried to gather what little we had. I didn’t know where we were going or what we were running from anymore. But I knew one thing—whatever was happening, it was bigger than us. And it wasn’t done yet.

-------------------

The sky darkened unexpectedly, as if a massive storm cloud had rolled in, but the sound that accompanied it was unlike any thunder. It started as a faint hum, growing into a deafening roar that made the ground vibrate beneath our feet. Everyone froze, heads snapping upward in unison.

Planes—dozens of them—flooded the sky, blotting out the stars and casting eerie shadows over the house. At first, I wanted to believe they were just planes, some kind of military exercise gone wrong. But the way they moved, so precise and unnatural, made it impossible to hold on to that hope.

We could no longer deny it. These weren’t planes—they were UFOs. Some looked like the aircraft we had seen earlier, with a single wing that spun and hovered unnervingly. They moved with an uncanny precision, as if alive. Each one adjusted its angle to peer into our house, the alien inside seemingly fixated on us. No matter where we went, no matter how we tried to hide—behind furniture, crouched below the windows—they could always find us. Even when Tony and I pressed ourselves into the shadows below the window, they tilted their crafts to keep us in view.

There was no escape.

The other crafts were different. They defied explanation, their shapes shifting and morphing as though the air itself bent around them. Some glowed faintly, like molten metal cooling, while others seemed to absorb the light around them, casting deep, unsettling darkness.

No matter the shape or size, they all shared one thing: an oppressive presence, as though they weren’t just watching us but reaching into us, probing for something we couldn’t understand.

The sun disappeared behind their massive forms, plunging the neighborhood into an eerie twilight. A sharp wind blew in their wake, stirring up leaves and sending shivers down our spines.

“What… what is this?” Dan’s voice cracked as he backed toward me.

Before anyone could respond, the planes began to hover in place, a low mechanical whine filling the air. Then, beams of light shot down from several of them, illuminating Andy and Dan. The beams shimmered, almost like liquid, and began to pull them upward.

“No! Andy!” I screamed, lunging forward, but the force of the light knocked me back as if an invisible wall had slammed into me. Andy flailed, his face a mix of terror and disbelief as he rose toward the nearest plane.

In that moment, a memory surfaced, sharp and clear—a flash of his laugh from just the other day when I was babysitting him. He had that mischievous grin, the one that lit up his whole face, as he said, “Put your hand on your tongue and say, ‘I love apples.’”

I had naively done it, pressing my hand to my tongue and saying the words as instructed. Only, what came out wasn’t “I love apples,” but something garbled and ridiculous. He had burst out laughing, doubling over as I realized what I had just said aloud sounded a lot more like, “I wuv aholes.”

I could still hear his laughter now, that pure, uninhibited joy.

But now, that laugh was gone, replaced by the sound of his terrified screams as the beam of light pulled him higher and higher.

Dan’s attempts to fight the pull were equally useless, his shouts drowned out by the relentless drone of the engines.

People around us screamed, scattering in panic. The planes weren’t just taking Andy and Dan. They were making a statement. With a sudden, gut-wrenching sound, one of the planes unleashed a burst of energy. It struck the house across the street, reducing it to rubble in an instant. A wave of heat and dust rolled over us, and the ground beneath our feet trembled.

“They’re serious,” someone muttered, their voice trembling with fear.

“No kidding,” I snapped, heart pounding as I tried to think. We had to do something, but what could we possibly do against this?

Another plane fired, this time hitting a parked car. The explosion sent fragments flying, the shockwave nearly knocking me off my feet. The message was clear: don’t interfere.

Andy and Dan were almost out of sight now, their figures disappearing into the bellies of the planes. My chest tightened as helplessness washed over me. This couldn’t be happening. Not here, not to us.

“We have to go,” Bobby shouted, tugging at my arm. But I couldn’t move. My eyes stayed fixed on the planes as they began to rise higher, their engines roaring louder, like a triumph in the air. I closed my eyes and prayed, hoping with everything I had that they would just go away.

Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, they were gone. The sky cleared, sunlight returning as though nothing had happened. But the devastation they left behind was all too real. Homes smoldered, debris littered the streets, and a heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by distant sobbing.

Andy and Dan were gone.

I dropped to my knees, staring up at the now-empty sky. My hands clenched into fists, and a single thought consumed me: we had to get them back, no matter what it took.

Wished Away: Beneath the Stars: Chapter 4

The silence inside the fort was deafening, broken only by our heavy breathing and the faint crackle of a small flashlight in Bobby’s hands. The weak beam flickered as he adjusted it, casting long shadows across the rough dirt walls. The air was damp and thick, carrying a dusty, musty smell that tickled my nose. It felt like this place had been sealed off for years, untouched by the outside world.

I leaned back against the cool dirt wall, Tony nestled against me, his thumb in his mouth. His wide, curious eyes followed the shaky light, darting around the dim space like he was trying to memorize every detail. The walls were roughly dug, thick roots jutting out like gnarled fingers. Some formed natural shelves, and wooden beams crisscrossed overhead, holding the ceiling in place. In the corner, the rusted ladder leading to the trapdoor stood like a forgotten secret, blending perfectly with the forest floor above.

David broke the quiet first, his voice a forced whisper.

“Well, that was fun. Anyone wanna go back out and ask what they want? Maybe invite them for tea?”

I rolled my eyes, brushing dirt off my hands. “Yeah, let me know how that goes.”

Bobby snorted. “David, if you’re trying to be funny, you’re failing. We could’ve been caught. Or worse.”

“Or worse?” David asked, grinning as he leaned against a root. “What’s worse, Bobby? You think they’re gonna probe us or something?”

“Maybe,” Bobby said, dead serious, his face half-lit by the flashlight’s glow.

Tony giggled softly, oblivious to the tension. I ruffled his hair and tried to focus on keeping him calm. “They probably just wanted directions,” I said lightly, though my heart was still racing.

David laughed. “Yeah, directions to wherever they drag us off to!”

But Bobby wasn’t laughing. His eyes flicked to the trapdoor above us. “How didn’t they see this?” he muttered. “They were right there, standing above us. How could they miss it?”

I had no answer. The door had blended so seamlessly with the forest floor, even I hadn’t noticed it until Bobby called it out. But how had the aliens—or whoever they were—not seen the hole?

David shrugged. “Maybe they’re blind.”

“Blind?” Bobby snapped. “They chased us!”

“They probably couldn’t see the fort because…” I hesitated. Because why? Because I had wished for it? Prayed for it? Did I make it invisible to them somehow?

Bobby turned his sharp gaze to me, as if he could read my thoughts. “You always have to act like everything’s fine, don’t you? Like you’ve got it all figured out.”

I stiffened, bristling. “I’m just saying there’s no point in panicking.”

David stepped in quickly, raising his hands like a referee. “Hey, cool it, Bobby. It’s not like he called the plane here.”

Except… maybe I had.

--------------------------

The silence inside the fort was deafening, broken only by our labored breathing—and the faint hiss of my inhaler. I leaned against the cool dirt wall, focusing on each breath. Every inhale felt shallow and shaky, as though my lungs were trying but failing to do their job. The wheeze in my chest rattled faintly, loud enough that I was sure my brothers could hear it too. My chest tightened, a relentless pressure squeezing harder with every passing second. I tried to draw a deep breath, but it caught in my throat, triggering a soft, raspy cough. My nose was starting to run, the damp, musty air thick with allergens that tickled at my sinuses. Whatever it was, it felt like it was crawling deeper into my lungs, settling there like an unwelcome guest.

I shook my inhaler, holding it up to the dim light, trying to guess how many puffs were left. Probably not enough if we stayed down here much longer. Tony pressed close to me, his thumb in his mouth, his wide eyes darting around the dim space like he was trying to memorize every detail.

The walls were rough and uneven, with thick roots jutting out like gnarled fingers. Some twisted into natural shelves, while wooden beams crisscrossed overhead, barely holding the ceiling in place. The whole place felt ancient, like it had been carved out of the earth ages ago and forgotten. In the corner, the rusted ladder leading up to the trapdoor stood like a secret we shouldn’t know about, its edges blending so seamlessly with the forest floor above that I wondered how anyone had ever found it.

I took a quick puff from my inhaler and leaned my head back against the wall, closing my eyes for a moment. The air down here was thick, heavy. I had to get out soon. If not, I wasn’t sure my inhaler—or my lungs—would last much longer.

“I gotta pee,” Tony said suddenly, breaking the long silence.

I blinked, trying to figure out how long we’d been down here. Time felt slippery in the fort, like the outside world had stopped the moment we dove underground.

“Well, where is Dan? He’s the one who’d be brave enough to poke his head out,” David muttered.

Dan was the fourth of us brothers. Bobby, David, and I were a year apart—Aunt Dolly always called us “three peas in a pod.” Then there was a four-year gap before Dan, and little Tony came along a few years later to round out the group.

“Dan’s at Andy’s,” I reminded them. I’m the one who keeps track of things. That’s just how it goes, which is probably why I’m the one writing this story. Whether you believe it or not, that’s up to you—but hey, thanks for reading this far.

“I gotta pee!” Tony said again, more urgently this time.

David rolled his eyes. “Just let it out,” he muttered.

I shook my head, my voice low but firm. “I don’t think we can get out right now—not with that plane up there and… whatever was chasing us.”

Bobby shifted uncomfortably, his flashlight beam bouncing against the crisscrossing wooden beams above us. “He can’t just—”

“I gotta go!” Tony said urgently, his thumb popping out of his mouth. “I can't hold it!”

The tension hung in the air, as thick and heavy as the fort’s atmosphere. We needed to make a decision, and fast.

--------------

Bobby shifted uneasily, his hand still gripping the flashlight. The beam danced across the uneven ceiling, casting strange shadows on the walls. His voice was low but urgent. “We can’t just stay here forever. We have to figure something out.”

Tony, still pressed close to me, squirmed in my arms. His thumb was back in his mouth, but he was tense now, his small face scrunched with worry. “I gotta pee,” he mumbled around the thumb, his voice muffled.

“Well, what do you want me to do?” Bobby snapped. “We can’t just—”

“Hold it forever?” Tony’s voice was clearer now, his thumb popping out for a second before he shoved it back in. His impatience, though young, was hard to ignore.

I glanced around the darkened fort. The silence was thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of our breathing. The musty air clung to my skin, and the weight of the moment pressed on my chest. We were running out of time.

“Let’s go.” I stood up, trying to steady my shaky breath, the tightness in my chest still there. My inhaler was almost empty, but I didn’t mention it. There was no time to dwell on that now.

David eyed me with a mix of caution and relief. “You sure?”

I nodded, forcing myself to sound calm, though every part of me screamed for us to stay hidden. “We can’t stay here. We don’t know how long the plane is gonna hover, or if they’re still out there. We’ll take a risk, but we need to move.”

Bobby looked over at the trapdoor. His face was drawn tight with concern, but he didn’t argue. He knew I was right. “Fine. But if they’re still out there—”

“They won’t see us,” I interrupted, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “We’ll go slow, check the area first. Then we move. Got it?”

Tony tugged at my sleeve. “Pee now?”

I sighed, realizing that the poor kid wasn’t going to wait much longer. “We’ll figure it out, buddy. Just hold on.”

We gathered ourselves. The trapdoor was still hidden, blending with the forest floor above, but I knew it wasn’t foolproof. One wrong move, and we could be spotted. My heart pounded in my ears as I carefully reached for the rusted handle, pulling it ever so slowly. It creaked, just a little, but I held my breath, hoping it wouldn’t be loud enough to draw attention.

David peered out first, his head barely visible above the edge of the trapdoor. He stayed still for a moment, scanning the area. My eyes flicked nervously to the flashlight beam, bouncing now with every shift of Bobby’s hand. I half expected it to draw unwanted attention.

After what felt like an eternity, David whispered, “Clear. For now.”

We all exchanged a look, each of us trying to steady the rising panic inside. Slowly, one by one, we climbed up the ladder, our movements deliberate and quiet. I went last, making sure to push the trapdoor back into place once we were all out. The damp ground felt solid beneath my feet, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were still being watched.

Tony suddenly let out a small sob. I glanced down at him, and that’s when I realized it—his pants were wet. The smell of urine hit the air just as I heard the telltale sound of it hitting the ground. Tony stood there, frozen, his face crumpled with the realization that he’d peed his pants.

“I—I didn’t mean to!” he cried, his voice breaking as tears welled in his eyes. His tiny hands reached up for me, desperate for comfort.

I bent down quickly, pulling him into my arms. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay.” I whispered into his hair, my heart breaking for him. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. But right now, we didn’t have the luxury of time or perfect circumstances. I gently rubbed his back, trying to soothe him, though my own nerves were unraveling.

David and Bobby both looked at Tony, the tension thick between us all. Bobby shifted awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with the situation, but David’s eyes softened, his protective instincts kicking in. “He’s just a kid,” David said quietly, his voice rough. “We’re not exactly in the best place for him.”

I nodded, holding Tony close, the wetness of his pants a stark reminder of how out of control things were. “We’ll get out of here,” I said, more to myself than anyone else.

The sound of the plane’s engine rumbled in the distance, reminding us that we were far from safe. We couldn’t waste any more time.

I wiped a tear from Tony’s cheek and gave him a small smile. “Ready to go?” I asked, my voice shaky but determined.

Tony sniffled and nodded, clinging to me as we made our way forward, one step at a time. The plane was still circling, but we had no choice now. We had to move, and we had to move fast.

The night felt darker, colder. But we weren’t giving up yett