The odds of getting struck by lightning in any given year are about one in a million, but for an average lifetime that’s just one in 15,300. Now, you’d think that if lighting did strike you, it would mean instant death, or at least imminent vegetation as your brains melt into scrambled eggs. In reality, around 90% of all victims survive.
Now, that’s not to say that you can just walk off scot-free. Immediate symptoms of lightning strikes include, but are not limited to:
When I woke up at the hospital, they told me I’d had prolonged respiratory arrest along with second degree burns. They said I was lucky, all things considered; I had been deprived of oxygen for quite some time, nearing cardiac arrest and organ failure. In short, I was brought back from the brink of death. Obviously, I was relieved, although confused, for at the time I could not recall what it was that almost killed me.
Often, your physical body can bounce back somewhat quickly following a lightning strike. On the flip side, the most common long-term effects are neurological in nature, which include but are not limited to:
The last thing I remembered was me getting a glass of water from the kitchen. There was a mild storm coming through the area, and I had been sitting in my lazy chair reading a book, when thirst had struck my dry throat. As I went to fill up my glass, something had pulled my body up and slung it across the kitchen.
Of all lightning strikes, 32% happen indoors, which is not the same as storm clouds invading your home and attacking you like they’re minions of Zeus - and no, it’s not ball lightning either. Being in contact with landline telephones as well as poor plumbing are the most common causes. I live in an old house devoid of PVC piping, so their best guess was that lightning had struck somewhere near, or directly on my house, the electrical energy transferring to the metal piping, which connects to the tap. Unassumingly I had, at that exact moment, decided to pour myself a glass of water.
I spent a week at the hospital. Each day the nurse would have to remind me of what had happened. I could remember my name, the date, the name of the president and all that, but the actual event slipped my mind each time. They did an EKG on me every day to check on my heart, which showed no signs of arrhythmia or other abnormalities.
By the end of the week I was finally feeling like myself again. My memory had improved, and I could remember exactly what had happened without it slipping my mind. My heart and other organs were doing fine, and the burns were healing well. I was told that there’s a chance I might feel depressed or anxious, especially in the upcoming weeks, and to call them if such symptoms persisted for more than a few days. They sent me home, and told me to schedule a follow-up in a couple of weeks.
When I drove up the gravel driveway to my house, I saw my neighbor Ginny burst out from her front door and run up to my car. As I swung the door shut behind me, she jumped up and embraced me in a tight hug that would’ve pushed me onto the ground if not for the car catching us both. For a while she didn’t say anything, but then in a snap she let go, seeming slightly embarrassed at the forceful hug and the overstep in physical intimacy.
Ginny had been my neighbor for most of my adult life. I wouldn’t call us friends, but for two people living next to each other, we were quite close. We’d chat for a while anytime we bumped into each other, helped out with yard work, and kept an eye out for each other’s property if one of us went on vacation. I’d never asked how old she was, assuming by her looks and similar life experiences that she was around my age: mid-thirties. She’d inherited the property from her mom, and had moved in a year before I had, almost a decade ago.
Ginny took a step back and looked me up and down, her gaze lingering on the bandages on my arms covering the burns. “Jesus, Nick, I thought you died. I tried calling the hospital but they wouldn’t say anything since I’m not family. You’d think they’d at least give some update to whoever called them in the first place, for fuck’s sake.”
“They didn’t tell me you were the one who called 911,” I replied. “Thanks, Ginny. I mean if it wasn’t for that – for you, I probably would have been dead.”
“Glad you’re not,” she said, her mouth strict and taut in concern, her eyes wide in relief.
I gave her a wide smile. “Me too.”
Ginny asked me about the burns, the hospital food, the EKG - everything. It felt good to unload, and she was happy to listen. At that moment, I realized how much she cared for my well being, and similarly how much of myself I wanted to share with her. I guess all it required was a near-death experience for us to realize these things.
As our conversation started to drift off, the pauses becoming longer and the turns to speak shorter, I was about to ask her to join me for a cup of coffee. She interrupted the small silence that had brewed just as I was about to open my mouth.
“You should go and get some rest, Nick. And let’s talk more soon, okay?” And if you need a ride for your checkup, I’m glad to drive.”
“Yeah, yeah… of course,” I muttered as I redacted the invitation in my mind. “And you get some rest too, I wouldn’t want you worrying any more about me. And maybe I’ll take you up on that offer.”
Ginny flashed a wide smile and looked into my eyes. “Good night.”
“Good night, Ginny, and really…” I paused for a moment, forgetting how the sentence was supposed to continue as butterflies started to fly and flicker in my stomach. “Thanks again. For listening. And talking. And see you soon.”
She turned around and started walking back to her house. I stood there for a second and followed her with my eyes, feeling like for the first time I’d really seen her, presently mesmerized by what I had unearthed. She glanced back at me with a smile, and I nearly jumped from embarrassment, blushing like I’d somehow been found out. I speed walked the rest of the way up to my house, realizing something crucial: she had glanced back.
One side-effect of lightning strikes they didn’t care to mention was the half-empty fridge and the mound of expired food that awaited my arrival. I didn’t have anything to eat, and after a week of hospital food I really wanted some real food. So after a round trip at my house, I headed back out to get some groceries, feeling like I should’ve realized this would happen earlier.
Resuming my regular life was depressing. Not because my life sucked, but because, apparently even if I get hit by goddamn lightning the chores and bills piled up as if nothing had happened. The monotony and bureaucracy of ordinary life would probably hunt me to my grave, the bills for the funeral service sent with me six feet under. Even Charon collected a toll to cross the river Styx for the privilege of getting into Hades.
Routine helped. Monotony by definition is constant, so that helps the brain do the thing that the brain does. After a week I was back in full swing, the accident transforming from a living instance to a memory. What bothered me most, though, is that every day as I pulled up to my driveway, I was hoping that Ginny would once more run up to me in that warm embrace she’d given me a week ago. I didn’t wish to get struck by lightning again, but I did wish that me and Ginny could pretend I had, so we could talk more.
One warm evening as I was doing groceries, I saw something… weird. There was a large, middle-aged man pushing a cart past me, his body pressing up against me without his knowledge. I glanced at him as he moved past, following him with my eyes in slight annoyance. As he turned the isle, it looked like his shadow had lingered. Like somehow the light lagged, glitched, or distorted in some way that made it seem like him and his shadow separated. I shrugged it off and continued with my shopping.
As I previously stated, neurological conditions are the number one after-effect of lightning strikes. Soon, I started to worry that there was some short-circuit of the brain happening, since after the man at the store I’d started to notice more and more disembodied shadows. I’d see people walking, and their shadow would simply stop following them, like a lazy dog on a walk it didn’t want to continue. Sometimes I’d see people without shadows at all, and vice versa; shadows in the mangled shapes of people that didn’t seem to have a beginning point.
The checkup wasn’t due for another two weeks, so I thought I’d just ride out whatever this was. Some slight problem with my eyesight didn’t seem too far fetched with all the other malfunctions my body had gone through as a gigajoule of energy pulsated through my organs and boiled my blood. Whatever this was, I reckoned there was a good chance it’d go away on its own. I tried not to look at the shadows, hoping they’d resolve themselves back to their originators in the meantime.
Soon after, I stumbled upon a stroke of luck: I bumped into Ginny. We took out our trash at the same time (or maybe I waited until I heard her go out and then ran after her, oh what a coincidence) and had a conversation near the bins. Romantic, I know. We didn’t talk about anything too deep, the warmth of last week seemingly worn off. But to my surprise, she asked me out for coffee the next day. Thrilled, but trying to seem calm, I replied with an abnormally loud “yES,” like I’d just re-entered puberty and my voice had started to crack.
Coffee went great. At the beginning we were both awkward, but soon the conversation just started rolling. We’d known each other for so long, yet we’d never talked for this long at a time; it was a weird concoction of familiarity and the unknown, like a painting that has been on your wall for what seemed like eternity that you didn’t know the artist of, or the year that it was produced.
I learned more about her family, and how her mom got the house. How her dad lived a couple states away, so they don’t see each other very often. How, when she was little, she tried to mimic adults by pouring a dollop of coffee into her chocolate milk and calling it a latte. In the end, we’d talked for hours and probably had eight cups of coffee amongst us. Neither of us wanted to leave, but Ginny reminded me that a) we both have regular adult things to do, b) the coffee shop was about to close, and more importantly c) we can continue this on our next date. I guess lightning can strike twice.
I walked Ginny to her car. It was early evening, the sun setting lazily and the parking lot lights providing us with a dim spotlight. We said our goodnights, and as if she’d anticipated my wish, she gave me a warm, big hug. This time she didn’t grip me like she didn’t want to say goodbye, like she had when I came back from the hospital, instead holding me like she would someone she’d be hugging again very soon.
As she entered her car and started to drive off, I noticed something wrong. Her shadow hadn’t followed her to the car, instead standing in the middle of the parking space. It was clearly her shadow, the spotlights drawing her distinct figure and long, flowy hair in inky dark lines. Now, this might sound ridiculous, but I tried to shoo the shadow away, like it was a stray dog. A bit less ridiculous sounding: the shadow didn’t heed my command. Instead, it stood there, wavering between rays of evening sun spilling over the horizon. It felt like the shadow stared at me, like we were partaking in a silent conversation.
Adhering to my previous commitment, I tried to ignore the shadow and started to walk towards my car. I got in and sat there for a moment, the coffee and Ginny still warm and sweet inside my heart, but her disembodied shadow a pinprick in the otherwise excellent evening. I took a few deep breaths and put the key into the ignition, ready to hit the road.
Then I heard it.
A crash coming from the main road, loud enough to pierce all thoughts in two in a thunderous demand for attention. Obliging to its request, I exited the vehicle and moved toward the road.
What unveiled itself was a waking nightmare I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
A truck had t-boned a car as it pulled out of the parking lot and into the road. The truck’s speed must have been enormous, or maybe it was just a small thing getting outweighed and beaten by the bigger thing, speed unaccounted for.
As I saw the car, realizing it was Ginny’s off-white Toyota, I started to run, hoping to help, get Ginny out, call an ambulance, something. As I got closer I realized there was nothing I could do, my feet slowing down in anticipation of pure hopelessness. The truck driver had already jumped out of his vehicle and was looking at the wreckage stuck to the nose of his truck. The driver and his 18 wheeled hearse seemed to not have a scratch on either of them. Ginny wasn’t as lucky.
Ginny’s car was in the shape of a fortune cookie, twisted and cracked in the middle, its ends pointed like the tips of a boomerang. Inside, her head laid on the forward-facing air bag, which, in the sideways collision had only helped to prop up her mangled body. Twisted metal strings and pipes had punctured her torso, coloring her blouse a crimson red. Her eyes were open, looking at the truck as if she was still waiting for it to pass before merging onto the road. Her legs were crushed and consumed by the vehicle, coalescing with the steel and oil and faux leather upholstery.
The last neurons in her brain fought valiantly until they too abandoned their post as she was being taken to the hospital. They told me she’d been in a vegetative state the instant she was hit, but her lungs worked for some fifteen minutes longer until she finally drowned in her own blood.
For the next few days, grief and guilt burrowed themselves deep into my soul.
I should have refused the coffee date.
I should have kept her there for longer, then the accident wouldn’t have happened.
I would never again help her out with those small branches that accumulated on the gutters above her kitchen window.
She would never again lend me garbage bags that I always seemed to run out of.
We can never ask each other “How’s work?” again.
She will never hug me again.
Five days after her death, I got a call. It was Ginny’s dad Fred. He introduced himself matter-of-factly, and told me how he’d heard that me and Ginny were close neighbors, and looked out for each other. Although he seemed sure I had, he still asked if I’d heard the news. It was my turn to bury my sadness and matter-of-factly reply “Yes, I heard. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Murphy.” After a quick, meandering conversation between two heartbroken men, he asked me for a favor.
Fred couldn’t make it here for another few days. He said he needed some time to scrounge up enough money for the flights and funeral service, and seeing as me and Ginny were good neighbors, he wanted to ask if I could go over to her house and just see if everything was ‘alright’. When I asked him what he meant, he supposed that there might be some rotting food around, lights on, water leaking somewhere. The request took me by surprise, seeing as Ginny, as far as I knew, was always responsible, timely, and generally well equipped to take care of herself and her house. Even so, I obliged, saying I’d go and take a look and check that everything was okay.
I didn’t want to go. I knew everything there would just remind me of Ginny.
Maybe our next date would’ve been at her house. Ordered some pizza and watched a movie.
In the end, I respected her father’s grief, and decided to just get it over with. I took the emergency key she’d given me years ago and walked out my front door, around our shared fence, and up to her front porch. I tried not to think too much as I inserted the key into the keyhole, hoping to lock away all feelings and thoughts for the next five minutes. The door creaked familiarly as it opened, and I stepped inside, closing it behind me to keep the autumn cold out.
The whole first floor was dark. Lights on, really Mr. Murphy?
I walked up to the kitchen and checked that there was no leakage from the sink or trash rotting in piles on the floor. Everything seemed completely normal, like the house was simply waiting for its owner to return from work. I walked around the rest of the first floor, wondering how on earth Fred could think that his daughter is some kind of inattentive slob. The house was clean and organized throughout, and it even smelled fresh. I decided to quickly scan the second floor and then leave, my promise thereby fulfilled.
Once I got to the second floor, I saw a small light emanating from the far end of the hall, behind a half-closed door. Fine, one lamp, Fred. One. I walked up to the room and opened the door, revealing a tidy, compact bedroom. One of the bedside lamps was on, producing a warm yellow glow that reached exactly half of the room in a blurry spotlight. On the leftmost nightstand there was a stack of books, and closest to the bed one book had been left facing downwards, with its pages open in the middle, in the way that people with missing bookmarks often place their books down. The cover was completely black, with no visible text anywhere. Judging by its thickness, it might have been a very minimalistic bible.
As I started to move towards the bed, something in my mind did not agree with what I saw, forcing me to stop in my tracks and reassess. It took me a second to realize, but there was a shadow emerging from the edge of the light, near the bed. First it was a thin line, which slowly elongated and started to consume the glow unto itself. My heart jumped up to my throat, readying me to face whatever threat would emerge.
The shadow twisted and unfurled, elongated and stretched out as it took its final, familiar shape. My head felt hot and my hands cold as ice. It was Ginny’s shadow, the same one that left her for dead on that night at the parking lot. It moved like ink in water, swooshing in the light, its edges blurry and undefined - but it was definitely her, and like the previous time, I felt it stare at me. I froze and shivered as the room seemed to drop below freezing, my breath coming out in corrosive clouds. Then, I felt like someone had stabbed a thick needle into the back of my skull and injected my brain with coolant. Following this, a voice echoed inside of my head.
We know that you can see us. As you have noticed us, we have noticed you.
“W-who are you? What are you talking about? How are you talking to me… inside my head?” I replied automatically in thought, the mode of communication feeling surprisingly natural.
We are Keres, the eaters of death. We feast on blood and pray for destruction.
The shadow opened its arms, shifting them as if to showcase the room.
“Is Ginny with you?”
No. She is in a different place. We feasted upon her corpse. We thank you for your contribution - excellent timing. Without you she would have continued in the world of the living for much longer.
“I didn’t fucking kill her!” I tried to scream in spite of the paradox of raising the volume of thoughts in one’s mind.
No. But you made it possible, and we thank you again. On account of your help, we offer you this advice: if you have seen us, and we have seen you; other things lurk beneath that hold the same power.
“What things? More shadows?”
No. Moros.
“Who’s Moros?”
Death incarnate.
Suddenly, the shadow faded away, like those words were so deeply cursed that they needed to be left hanging in the air, unable to find a conversation to partake in. My mind was suddenly cleared, like the feeling of taking off noise-canceling headphones. The bedside lamp buzzed quietly, its light clear of all shadows.
I walked up to the lamp, turned it off, and ran out of the house. Once I got back to mine, I didn’t turn on any lamps for the rest of the night, afraid of producing any more habitats for whatever I’d just seen… and talked to. I decided that the next day I’d call the doctor and try to move up my checkup – something was definitely wrong with my mind.