You know, only one year have I gone this long without splitting a story. I actually thought I might make it the whole month without a two-parter. Alas, this one got away from me – it needs space to breathe I couldn’t give it in one night. So, please enjoy the first part of this restoration.

Tessa smiled as she climbed out of her F-150 and shouldered her small tool bag. “Mr. Matheson, I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she shook the visibly nervous man’s hand. “You didn’t seem particularly happy when we last met.”

“That’s because your bid was ridiculously high and your ideas for renovating this house were… not what we were looking for.”

“And yet, here I am…” Tessa smiled, gesturing towards the old Craftsman Bungalow with siding removed and scaffolding around one side.

“Yes, well, we’ve had some… issues with the other contractors….” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Contractors? Plural?”

The man grimaced. “Yes, we’ve had three different contractors start and leave without warning. Only one has even returned our phone calls.”

“Oh? What did they have to say for themselves?” Tessa smiled.

The man fidgeted nervously. “They said…” he started and then mumbled something unintelligible.

“They said what?” Tessa asked again.

“They said… they said it’s haunted,” he said finally.

“Haunted?” Tessa said, turning to the house, nodding seriously. “Yeah, that makes sense…”

“It – what?”

Tessa stared at the house as she recited: “This is the Rutherford house. Built in 1911 by Edwin Rutherford and his brother Leland. When the Rutherford family finally sold it in 1965, the subsequent owners sold it sooner and sooner – first owner had it for fifteen years, the next thirteen, then ten… By the ‘80s the owners just rented it, but had trouble keeping tenants longer than a year. Eventually, it sat empty until you bought it.”

Mr. Matheson stared at her open-mouthed. “How… How do you know so much about this place?”

She looked at Matheson and smiled a little sadly. “Mr. Matheson, I don’t bid high for my health. I put in the work – that means before and during the job. When you asked for a quote, I pulled the records for this place. I like to know what I’m getting into. This place has had a lot of… trauma.”

“Trauma? I don’t understand, there’s been no reported deaths…”

“Well, there you’re wrong,” Tessa said. “Edwin and Lila lost their eldest son here in 1923.”

“How can you know that?”

“Homework, Mr. Matheson. Historical societies, microfiche at the library.”

“To… to what end, Ms. Calder?”

“Tessa, please,” she said. “A house is more than wood and plaster. It’s a culmination of materials, process, history, and intention.”

“Intention, Ms. Calder—err, Tessa? Pardon me for saying this, but that sounds a little… woo-woo.”

Tessa grinned, “That’s not the first time I’ve got that. Let’s check the place out and let it tell us what’s going on…” She walked towards the house leaving Matheson staring after her. She stepped gingerly up the steps onto the porch, listening to the way the wood creaked almost imperceptibly under her steps. She tilted her head at the green door with the inset windows before rapping her knuckles on the smooth surface. “Where’d you get this cheap door?”

“It matched the aesthetic we’re going for,” Matheson said as he hurried up onto the porch. “And it wasn’t cheap, let me tell you…”

“Hollow-core, synthetic finish… Please tell me they didn’t get rid of the original.”

“It’s in the garage,” he gestured towards the detached garage down the driveway.

“Okay, good. I have a guy who can restore it and get it to match what you’re looking for.”

“Is that really necessary? This door is perfectly fine…”

Tessa turned around and faced Matheson directly, speaking quietly yet firmly. “No, it’s not. That door’s the only thing every hand that ever lived here touched every day. You think you can just replace that and not change the house?”

“Change the…” Matheson sputtered.

Tessa ignored him and stepped inside. In the fading evening light, the pink light through the windows didn’t do much to illuminate the interior or cut the intense chill. Tessa pulled out her flashlight and shone it around the dim interior as Matheson stepped inside behind her.

“The power is currently off…” he explained unnecessarily but was cut off by a loud knocking coming from the south wall of the room, causing him to jump.

Tessa didn’t react except to continue calmly tracing the beam of her flashlight over the interior until she reached the wall with the knocking. “Ah, I hear you…” she said calmly as the light fixed on the white-painted brick fireplace. She walked towards the fireplace as the knocking got louder and more insistent.

“We… we can come back during the day,” Matheson said, edging towards the door.

“No, we’re good…” she said, pulling out a pry bar and hammer from her tool bag before setting it down. She ran her hand across the brick lining the firebox as the knocking continued. “Uh-huh,” she said softly, “I hear you…” She finally stopped, set the pry bar against the mortar between two bricks, and struck it with the hammer. Several quick blows later, a brick clattered to the floor — and as it fell, a gust of warm air swept through the room, carrying the scent of linseed oil and baked bread.

“What in gods name are you doing?!” Matheson yelled when the brick fell to the hearth. In the silence that followed, Matheson remarked, “The knocking… it’s stopped.”

Tessa had set her tools down and brought the flashlight up to the hole in the brickwork. “That’s what you’re trying to tell me,” she said quietly.

“What is it?” Matheson asked.

“Take a look,” she gestured him over. He moved to the hole. “See that color?” The flashlight played over dust-covered muted cobalt and wheat-gold glaze. “Hand-painted tiles. I’d bet that’s the original fireplace. It wants to be uncovered.”

“Your saying, the knocking… the haunting… is the house itself?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Mr. Matheson.”

He looked from the broken brick to her calm face.

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I don’t have to believe it,” she said. “I can hear it.”

For a long moment he said nothing, then nodded once – small, defeated.

“All right,” he whispered. “Fix it.”

Tessa kept her eyes on the exposed tile, brushing soot from the painted wheat stalks.

“I’m not fixing it,” she said. “I’m letting it breathe. You’ve just got to give the heart of the house a little air.” She placed her hand on the exposed tile and closed her eyes as she felt the warmth from the tile and knew the house realized it was being heard.

After we had set up camp I really needed to get a run in. I asked if anyone in our group wanted to join me, and while I got plenty of “I’ll join you tomorrow morning,” no one was interested in running after setting up tents.

As I pulled on my running shoes in our tent, my girlfriend pleaded, “Come on, Julie. Skip your run tonight. It’s going to get dark soon anyway.”

I looked at my watch. “It’s 4:30. I’ve got plenty of time, Liz. Besides, after the drive up here I’m a ball of energy. I’m not going to go far. I just need to stretch my legs.”

“Jules, seriously – there’s, like, mountain lions and bears out there! Come on, don’t go alone.”

I put my hand on her shoulder and looked her in the eyes. “I’ll be fine, Liz. Seriously. How many years have we been coming up here?”

“I know… but… hurry back, please?”

With a promise I would keep it short, an hour and a half later, after the last light had died away I realized I was a terrible girlfriend. It was a case of “Oh, I don’t remember that trail…” combined with, “That uphill sprint is really tantalizing…” and I was still a half mile from camp. I checked my Garmin watch and could see I wasn’t far and I was on the trail. I had a flashlight, even – I wasn’t that unprepared.

But as I descended into a particularly thick copse of pines, my spidey-sense was prickling. My hand fell to the holster where I carry my bear spray when I backpack… but I wasn’t carrying it while running. I took a deep breath, zipped my windbreaker closer up my neck and ran on.

I came to a dead stop when I heard the voice say, “Hey beautiful lady.”

My first thought: “he’s too close.” My second thought: “Please let it be a ghost…”

As the shirtless man came out from behind some trees onto the trail zipping up his jean shorts, it was clear what he was doing out here. And given I could smell the beer on him from ten paces, I could also tell he probably wasn’t prone to making good decisions (okay, the no-shirt and jean shorts spoke to poor decisions already, given his physique). I angled towards the far side of the trail and intended on just ignoring him – worse come to worse, I was confident I could outrun his drunk ass if it came to it.

“Well, Buck, what do we have here?” his friend stepped out of the bushes ahead of me.

In the light of my flashlight, I could tell from the way this guy was standing he wasn’t drunk. I could also tell his intentions might even be worse than his buddy’s.

“She’s fiiiiiiine, Dean,” the one named Buck said from behind me.

“Excuse me, guys,” I said as firmly as I could and endeavored to run by.

As I did, Dean reached out and grabbed my arm hard. “Oh, where you going, honey? We just want to talk…”

The selling feature for my just-in-case running flashlight wasn’t the clip I use to secure it to my waistband when not in use. Nor is it the quick USB-C rechargeable battery. No, instead it’s the second button which, when held for two second, gives you a burst of the full 3000 lumens that turns night into day. It also physically hurts when said button is depressed and the flashlight is a foot away from the face of the guy who just grabbed you.

The light flashed, Dean roared and released me, and I bolted like a spooked rabbit. With the adrenaline coursing through my veins, you’d think I’d easily be able to outpace drunk Buck and now-blind Dean. Unfortunately, the four miles I’d already done on top of the drive and setting up camp had sapped my all-out speed, and they were powered by some sort of pervert power – I could hear their footfalls gaining on me.

I ran though last-ditch defense – the flashlight could possibly flash again, and even if it couldn’t, it’s still a five inch long hardened aluminum tube, and my step-dad long ago taught me to throw a mean punch. But against two of them? I ran harder.

I came around the corner a good ten meters ahead of them when I saw it.

Ahead of me, angry, glowing, and charging in my direction straight out of a nightmare came the largest bear I have ever seen. Seriously, it rivaled the stuffed polar bear Liz and I saw at the sporting goods store in Ketchikan, Alaska last year. My flashlight shone right through it. And, did I mention it was coming straight for me?

I braked hard.

I looked behind me and I could hear Dean and Buck huffing and puffing. They hadn’t come around the corner yet, but they were just about to.

I looked ahead at the bear…

I ran towards the bear.

The bear ran past me.

Jaws open, it caught Dean’s midsection in its enormous jaws as one paw swatted Buck hard. He flew against the trunk of a tree with a sickening thud before falling limply to the forest floor. The bear reared onto its hind legs, Dean in its jaws. It stood at least fifteen feel tall before hurling Dean’s body to the ground. It roared a primal sound that shook the ground before ferociously swiping right claws and then left. I had to turn away. When I looked back, the bear was standing over what was left of Dean and it was looking at me.

I know I should have been, but I wasn’t afraid at all. The bear seemed to sense it, and – I kid you not – nodded at me before turning and leisurely walking down the path I had just run. Before it went around the corner, I watched it fade into the night. The forest went so still I could hear my heartbeat echoing in the dark.

“Jules!” I heard Liz yell as a crisscross of flashlight beams came running up the trail.

“Julie, are you okay?” Alfred asked. Before I could answer, Liz had enveloped me. “We heard screaming, and a roar…”

“Holy shit,” Taylor said as his beam shone over what was left of Dean.

“Oh my god!” Jennifer’s beam caught the broken figure of Buck.

“What did this?” Eliot asked.

Taylor’s beam followed the path the bear had taken, stopping on an indent in a soft spot in the dirt. He squatted down to examine the depression. “If I didn’t know better… those are too big for a black bear… I’d swear this was a grizzly. But California grizzlies went extinct more than a hundred years ago.”

“Jules, what happened?” Liz asked desperately.

I knew I was in shock. I could feel it in the way I let Liz’s embrace hold me up, and I knew it in the way my mouth and brain couldn’t form coherent words. Finally, I managed to quietly say, “I… I chose the bear.”

Man, sometimes you just need a day off. That was my day and it was lovely. The Halloween sales and empty shelves indicate we’re nearing the last days of the month. Where has the time gone? Well, I’m not going to worry about that for too long right now, we’ve still got more stories to tell. Tonight we’re going to hang out with two of the folks from The Boo Club a few nights back. You don’t need to have read that one – I think their personalities will present themselves pretty quickly here. Get your popcorn, it’s movie night…

The old Avalon theater on Crenshaw closed at the end of July and sat shuttered since while the owner tried to find a buyer for the space. On any Saturday night for decades, the Avalon would be bustling with excited patrons eager for the latest blockbuster passing others exiting energized or shocked or, sometimes, disappointed, but their energies crisscrossed beneath the glowing marquee, through the lobby that smelled enticingly of fresh popcorn and possibility.

For the last few months, though, the marquee has remained dark. Where black letters spelled out the titles of the movies playing inside, now those letters just read, “THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES. – THE AVALON”. And behind the locked front doors, their windows blanked out by cardboard, the concessions stood silent.

But tonight, the warming light of one of the popcorn machines winked on, casting a faint amber glow across the counter. A hum followed, low and electric, like the machine was clearing its throat after years of silence.

The kettle lid rattled once, then again. Something inside shifted. And then—pop. Just one, at first. Then another. A soft pop-pop-pop until the old glass box came alive, rain of white kernels spilling into the tray below as if the theater itself had decided to make a snack.

The door to one of the theaters opened of its own accord…

“Steve, are we going to watch movies or are you going to mess with that thing– Holy crap, you got it working!”

“I did,” Steve said matter-of-factly, inwardly just as surprised as Dale. “I’ll be in in a sec. Do you want butter on your popcorn?”

“Does a séance need candles?” Steve asked incredulously.

“I mean, it depends on–”

“Of course I want butter, Dale.”

“Okay,” Dale said, getting a cardboard bucket ready. “This place has been closed for a few months. No guarantees the butter is still good…”

“Does it look like I’m going to die of food poisoning?” Steve responded. “Hurry up, I’ve got the first movie ready to go.”

A few minutes later, the two ghosts sat in the empty theater as the screen glowed and the movie starts as a librarian pushes a book cart into the underground book storage. Books float between stacks behind her, unnoticed. Soon, though card catalogs start flipping their cards out behind her (“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Steve whispered). Hearing the cards scattering, she turns, shrieks, and tries to frantically flee the maze-like stacks only to confront what, from the audience point of view, is a bright light and loud noise. Eyes wide, the librarian screams and Ray Parker Jr’s iconic song starts before the title card for “Ghostbusters.”

“Oh my god, I’ve always wanted to see this!” Dale beamed.

“You’ve never seen the original 1984 ‘Ghostbusters’? How is that even possible?”

“I died in ‘83.”

“Oh,” Steven said, “That would explain it.”

On screen, the three would-be Ghostbusters are in the library basement and come upon a stack of books. “This is hot, Ray,” Egon says.

“Symmetrical book stacking, just like the Philadelphia mass turbulence of 1947,” Ray replies

“You’re right, no human being would stack books like this…” Venkman retorts, deadpan.  

Steve snorted. “I like this guy.”

“Symmetrical book stacking is just a polite poltergeist,” Dale said.

Steve nodded thoughtfully. “We could use more of those.”

A few moments later, the Ghostbusters confront the librarian ghost with a shout of “Get her!” and the ghost flares into a shrieking ghoul, scaring the Ghostbusters into fleeing the library.

“See, that’s the problem with the living—they always think yelling helps,” Dale said.

“Honestly, she was being pretty chill until they yelled ‘Get her!’”

 “Classic rookie mistake. You never shout at a Type 2 Manifestation,” Dale explained.

“You don’t shout at anyone holding that many overdue fines.”

The three Ghostbusters scramble out of the library and down the stairs.

“That’s the most accurate part of this movie so far,” Dale said.

“What, the screaming?”

 “No, the part where the living see a ghost and run. Finally, something realistic.”

“Seriously,” Steve agreed. “Sometimes you just got to make ‘em crap their pants, you know?” He elbowed Dale.

Later, the Ghostbusters explore the halls of the Sedgewick Hotel, proton packs humming,.

Ray comes face to face with Slimer eating a room service tray. “Disgusting blob…” he says.

“Whoa, that’s pretty offensive,” Steve yelled at the screen.

“Yeah, body shame much?” Dale agreed.

“You should look so good when you’re dead, Ray!” Steve jeered.

Moments later, when Venkman gets slimed, Dale and Steve bump fists.

“Ghost solidarity,” Dale says.

“Kick his ass, Slimer!”

Dale leaned back. “Finally, someone’s haunting for the little guy.”

Steve: “He’s just trying to enjoy room service in peace – relatable.”

When they bring Slimer down into the containment trap, both ghosts in the audience groaned.

“They always get the ghost in the end, don’t they?” Steve sighed.

“I mean, the movie is titled, ‘Ghostbusters.’”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, I guess they telegraphed that.” Then, “You know, I think I’d enjoy being captured.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Think about it, you’re in a little containment grid, hanging with other ghosts. No need to worry about haunting, just chilling with your pals,” Steve said.

Dale was quiet for a minute. “But I like haunting.”

“And that’s the next step – we’d organize a ghost jailbreak!”

“I want to see that movie,” Dale smiled.

An hour later, as the credits rolled, the projector light flickered against the empty rows. The faint hum of the popcorn machine filled the silence.

“Well,” Dale said, “that got a little off the rails in terms of actual ghost behavior.”

Steve grinned. “Yeah. Proton packs, containment grids, ghosts that look like boogers – none of it checks out.”

“Still,” Dale said, stretching his arms through the seat back, “it had heart. They actually liked the ghosts.”

“Eventually.” Steve reached into the bag between them, the popcorn now long cold but still somehow satisfying. “Guess that’s what I liked most. They were scared, sure—but they saw us.”

Dale smiled. “And then they ran screaming.”

“Details,” Steve said. “For two hours, we got top billing.”

The screen went dark. The old theater sighed and settled. Somewhere behind the concession stand, the popcorn machine gave one last pop.