My Brother Disappeared Along The Oregon Coast, And I Think Whatever Took Him Is After My Whole Family

The near crash was a fright at first, but it quickly instead served a hopeful purpose. It shocked me back into the real world and signified there might be a chance that I could at least get Calvin out of this thing alive and well.

I let off the gas a little to let the truck settle and got between the painted lines which led south to the hospital, but mashed that gas right back down once the truck steady.

Calvin and I were going to beat this thing.


I could hardly stand to sit in the lobby of the hospital. I would almost rather share a cold, dark beach with that ghostly orb than sit there in the stale, bright environment, with that awful smell of death tickling my nose. I took an extra-large dip to try and drown it out and spit into a clear Pepsi bottle and dodged the judging looks of nurses while I waited for hours to get a fucking single update about Calvin.

I checked the old school clock which hung over the fuzzy TV which broadcast a rerun of King of Queens and saw it was just a few minutes before 4 a.m. I had been in the godforsaken place for over three hours now. I officially had enough.

My check ins with the exceptionally-unpleasant carousel of foundation-caked faced ladies at the front desk had led me nowhere, so I was taking actions into my own hands. I got up from my seat and headed over to where the bathrooms were.

About the author

Jack Follman

Jack has written professionally as a journalist, fiction writer, and ghost writer. For more information, visit his website.

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