Daryl had lived the last decade of his life as spiritually as possible. Beginning his spiritual endeavors at the age of 43, he felt that it was as good a time as any. He did not want to associate himself with a specific religion, but instead tap into his spiritual being. To be closer to the heavens of his inner mind than ever before. To be in touch with the spiritual realm.
A year into his spiritual pilgrimage, Daryl experienced something unexplainable.
The process of his meditation was slow and relaxing. Relaxing enough to put him to sleep most of the time. But mostly, he lay half conscious. He began every meditation as the same. Breathing and reciting cooling dialogue. As he lay, beginning to fall asleep, a creaking came from across the room. Daryl blinked himself awake, allowing the soft glow from his table lamp to contract his pupils; the pain helped with the wake. Daryl looked toward the sound. The creaking came from a stool at the foot of a rocking chair. The stool moved back and forth on its pivotal axis, what it was made to do, but on its own without a body or force to push it along. It looked as if someone were sitting on the stool itself, rocking themselves to sleep. The only thing was that there was no one there.
Daryl slowly sat up, trying not to make a sound, as if any quick movements or creaks from the readjusting bed would stop the lively stool. Daryl’s eyes never left the point of curiosity. He didn’t dare break his focus. Not until he tried to debunk the self rocking. Daryl looked around the room, using mostly his peripherals to make sure he did not look too far away. The door was locked. The windows were shut. No air conditioning was running, because the temperature outside was below 50 degrees. No fan was on. No walls were missing. The roof was intact. He had no animals. The earth was still. There was no cause for the stool to rock as it was. Every swing exactly as the one before, never changing speed nor distance across. Back and forth it went. It continued to do so for minutes on end. As it rocked, Daryl watched. He wondered if the stool were to be stopped physically, would it continue right back to moving, or would it halt its velocity. Slowly walking toward the stool, the rocking continued. Daryl reached down. One finger, pointed out toward the stool, hovered over the arch of space which was occupied by the rocking, afraid of what might happen.
The stool kept rocking.
Daryl placed his finger down mid-way through a swing.
Daryl lifted his finger, half expecting the rocking to begin once more.
It did not.
Silence seemed to dance playfully around the room. No sound, no movement. The only thing heard by Daryl was the ringing in his ears when the world was utterly quiet. Tinnitus.
It had reassured his speculation in the latter.
Three quick, empty thuds were heard in the hallway just outside the door. The sound seemed like something was moving away from the bedroom, in haste. With his finger still locked above the stool, Daryl watched the door, wide eyed in consternation.
An epiphany had occurred in Daryl’s mind in the form of History Channel’s Giorgio Tsoukalos. Instead of saying “aliens,” in his signature way, in Daryl’s mind Tsoukalos says “ghosts.”
Daryl’s mouth stretched wide. A grin swallowed the lower half of his face.