Are You Listening

“Sam. Are you listening? We don’t have much…”

Bryan Egar King was born on June 5, 1912. He was the oldest son of Melvin and Margaret Towns. Although the family name was Towns, his parents gave their firstborn son the last name King, hoping that he would amount to great things. Four more children followed, each carrying the family name Towns.

The Towns family did not have a lot of money. Melvin worked on a farm, where he earned just over a dollar a day. Margaret stayed home and took care of the children. They lived in a two-bedroom house. The parents had their room, and the five children shared the other.

There was no running water. The bathroom was in the backyard. They drank water from a nearby well.

It wasn’t much, but they had each other.

At the age of 12, Bryan got a job working in the mines a mile outside of town. He was such a good worker that his salary was quickly raised from 75¢ a day to $1.15. By the time he was 16, he was making $3 a day.

He never told his parents how much he made. He gave them $1 a week and saved the rest. He was determined to be, as he put it, “Not rich. Just well-off.”

Bryan left home at the age of 18. He purchased a five-bedroom house on West Ervan Road. He started his own business selling radios and other electronics. He married Marie Dillinger, the daughter of a wealthy businessman. Together, they had five children.

The youngest was Michael, my great-grandfather.

Michael died when my grandfather was very young. Grandfather never lived in the house on West Ervan Road, although it was left to him. He was told never to enter the house.

Something happened there that he never talked about.

I always believed that Michael died in the house.

But that was never proven.

Grandfather died a few months ago. He was not the type who believed in giving a lot of material things. He felt that the best thing he could give was advice to the younger generation. So, when he passed the house on to me, he gave me one piece of advice:

Keep it in the family.

The advice I wish he would have given me was what to do with the old dump.

I called it a dump only because it was so old. It had been nearly 80 years since anybody had been inside. I imagined that everything was falling apart and that it was pretty much a death trap waiting to take its next victim.

However, that wasn’t what I found at all.

As expected, the lock was a little rusted. It took a little oil and a lot of force to get it to turn. The high-pitched squeal made me cringe, but I finally got the door open.

Once inside, I found a very nice house.

It was quite dusty, but it looked as though everyone had left planning to return a few hours later but never did.

Old furniture was covered with dust. An enormous grandfather clock stood in the foyer. Paintings of long-dead family members hung on the walls. Old books filled the shelves. Dishes remained inside the cabinets.

And the dining room table was still set for eight people.

Upstairs, the beds were made. There were clothes in the closets. A pair of reading glasses sat on a desk next to an open Bible.

The 21st chapter of Luke.

Next to the desk was an old phonograph. It was a Thomas Edison-style machine with a large metal horn and a crank on the side. Beside it sat a wooden box containing 12 cylinders.

Curiosity won.

I had always wanted to try one of these things.

I placed the first cylinder on the phonograph and turned the crank.

An old orchestra began playing a song I recognized. I thought it was Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

I sat at the desk, listening to the classical piece for the full four minutes the cylinder lasted.

I put the second cylinder on and started listening, but one minute in, something strange happened.

The music died.

A voice replaced it.

It was a boy’s voice.

“Hello! Are you there? Are you listening?”

He was young. Frightened. Worried.

Maybe 10 years old.

I didn’t recognize the voice.

But how could I?

This recording was at least 80 years old.

Then he called out my name.

“Samuel, are you listening? Can you hear me? I have to warn you!”

That’s when the music started again.

I grabbed the lever and stopped the phonograph.

Silence.

For perhaps 30 seconds, I simply stared at it.

Then I laughed.

Someone was playing a joke.

But how?

The house had not been entered for 80 years.

I hired a home inspector, and he verified that there were no other points of entry except the front door—the same door I had fought to open.

When he left, I laughed again.

Maybe I had been named after another relative.

It was at least plausible.

I put the third cylinder on, and as with the second, the voice came back.

“Sam! Samuel King! Are you listening? We don’t have much time. You have to evacuate. Get everybody out of town. The quake will kill everyone. Hurry! We don’t have much…”

I was puzzled. The town of Frankenshire, Iowa, was one of the least likely towns in the country to experience an earthquake. There weren’t any recorded in the history of the town. Not even a small tremor, let alone one big enough to kill everyone in town.

Another thing struck me as odd.

Bryan had five children: four girls and one boy. I knew the names of everyone from Michael on down. There was no other Samuel. Even if there had been another Samuel through one of Bryan’s daughters, he would most likely have had his father’s last name.

There shouldn’t have been another Samuel King.

This was weird.

I chose to ignore it. It was just a coincidence. The message lasted about 20 seconds, and then the music continued. I listened as I searched for other surprises in the old house. I had planned on selling it.

Now, the words “keep it in the family” rang in my head.

The fourth cylinder started with more classical music. I didn’t think it was Beethoven. Maybe Bach. I like classical music, but I’m not that good at identifying composers.

Like the previous two, a message interrupted the music.

“Samuel. Please listen. I am speaking to Samuel Egar King. This is urgent. An earthquake will shake the town of Frankenshire to rubble in just seven days. That will put it on October 3rd, 2027. Get everybody out of town. Nobody will survive. Act now.”

It was the same voice, but it seemed more urgent.

The fear and worry were gone from his voice.

They were in me.

I was worried.

I was frightened.

I had to tell somebody.

“Is this some kind of joke?” my mother said. “Did you find a way to record over these old cylinders? Don’t you know how much these things could have been worth? What’s wrong with—”

“Mom! Mom! Stop. Are you listening? That’s not my voice. I don’t even know that voice. These are exactly as I found them. Sealed in a house for 80 years. The only thing I did was play them.”

“So, you’re telling us,” my brother said, “that 80 years ago, someone—a child—left you a message about a disaster that takes place a week from now?”

“All I did was play the message.”

“But it used your name.”

“Yes. That’s what I found strange.”

“OK, Sam. We’ll just power up our time machine, go back 80 years, and meet the kid.”

I found it hopeless. If my own family thought that I was playing a joke on them, and I wasn’t too convinced it was real myself, how would I be able to convince anyone else?

“Wait,” I said. “Before you leave, let me play the next cylinder. Let me warn you, I have not heard it yet. I have no idea what’s on it.”

“OK. Let’s hear this unheard recording.”

Unlike the rest, this one did not start with classical music. The message started right away.

“Samuel, your family won’t believe you. You must show proof. OK. Tomorrow, at exactly 2:25 PM, a meteorite the size of a basketball will crash into Lincoln High School. It will go through the roof and land in the swimming pool. Nobody will be hurt, but the pool will be cracked, spilling the water into the basement. School will be canceled for the rest of the week.”

After that, the music started.

“There you go,” I said. “This is something that I can’t control. If it happens, you’ll know that I’m not pulling a prank.”

“OK. We’ll see if a space rock crashes into the school.”

They walked out laughing.

“That Samuel,” my mother said. “He’s always joking.”

“Yep!” my brother said. “But normally he knows when to drop it.”

I must admit that I was kind of skeptical about whether this meteorite was actually going to fall. If it did, I thought, that would mean the recordings were real.

Which would mean the earthquake was real.

Which would mean everybody was going to die.

At that point, I was nervous and terrified.

That night, there was a meteor shower. The densest one the town had seen in decades. Through my telescope, I watched countless streaks of light race across the sky. I watched and waited with eager anticipation.

I didn’t get any sleep.

The next day, I started to warn the staff at the school.

But why should I?

The recording said that nobody would be harmed. If I interfered, even a little, that could cause someone to be in a different spot. My warning could cause harm.

On top of that, I still wasn’t convinced it was real.

The best thing I could do was post everything that had happened on a local social media page. I figured that if people saw the post before things happened, they might take the earthquake warning seriously.

Most people responded as though I were introducing a new sci-fi story.

Tena See: Great story. Maybe we’ll see it on the big screen when you finish.

I.B. Joe King: I love it, Bro. I’m waiting to see what happens to the school.

Doe Nation: You should submit this into a contest. You’d win.

B4U Act: I’m waiting to see the end.

UR GR8: This was GR8. Finish it.

I started to play the next cylinder, but I decided to wait.

I wanted to see what was going to happen at 2:25.

I watched the sky the entire day. I didn’t do much else.

2:15 came, and I was on pins and needles.

2:20.

I was hyperventilating.

2:25.

Nothing.

Meteor activity was still high, but nothing seemed to be falling from the sky. I had no idea what I would say when my brother called.

I knew he would.

2:26.

The phone rang.

Before I could answer, I heard the sky rumble.

A sonic boom.

I looked out the window just in time to see the rock fall from the sky and strike the school.

“Hello.”

Silence.

“Hello!”

“How did you do it?”

“Do you really think I have the ability to call meteorites from space?”

“You have to have done something. How did you know?”

“All I did was play the cylinder.”

“What does the next one say?”

“I haven’t listened to it yet.”

“Wait for me.”

He was at the house in five minutes.

“OK. Let’s hear it.”

I put the next cylinder on and started the phonograph.

“I’d like to start with an apology. I should have told you to sync your watch with the clock on the wall.

“With that being said, Joe, do I have your attention now? Are you listening?

“I hope all is well at the school.

“Make sure you have everybody avoid the 12th Street Bridge when leaving town. It will be destroyed.”

Joe, my brother, was on board now. He promised to help me spread the word. But not much help was needed. Social media posts showed that more people were paying attention.

More were listening.

H&S2GOD: Luke 21:11—“There shall be great earthquakes”—I’m listening.

B4UAct: Warning. It also says, “There shall be terrors and great signs from heaven.” I’m listening.

UR GR8: Yep. The school, GR8 signs. I’m listening.

Rocks continued to fall, but most burned up before hitting the ground. Most of those that did reach the ground were tiny and did no damage. People were happy because they were worth a fortune to the right collector.

I posted the words from the cylinder. More and more people were paying attention and watching the bridge.

Then a rock the size of a small car fell.

It hit with such force that those standing near the bridge were thrown from their feet. They survived, but they were shaken by the ordeal.

The bridge was the main way to get out of town. If anyone was unable to climb 10 feet down the cliff, cross the river, and climb 10 feet back up on the other side, the bridge was the only way.

At least, the only way most people knew about.

The next morning, around 7:00 AM, there were about 50 people at my door.

“We want to hear the next cylinder.”

There was no way I could squeeze that many people into one room, so I pushed the phonograph to the window and played the cylinder.

“Now that everyone is listening, let me help you get everybody out of town.

“Just two miles into the woods on Rupereds Path, right before you hit the wall, you’ll find a tree different from the others. Climb the tree. Halfway to the top, you’ll find a tool, a wrench with a head that doesn’t fit any normal bolt. Grab it and continue down the path.

“When you reach the wall, hit the rock with the wrench. At some point, you will hear the clang of metal hitting metal. Clear the vines away to reveal a hidden door. Use the wrench to open it and enter the cave. Follow the tunnel to the end. It will take 12 hours to make it through. Make sure you take what you need: flashlights, food, water.”

It was Tuesday, September 28th.

We had only five days to get people out of town.

After sending people home to get ready, I took the time to record all of the cylinders onto my phone. I figured it would be nice to keep them with me.

Joe and a group of his friends ran through the woods and found the tree. Since he was never the athletic type, he let Billy do the climbing. Just as the cylinder said, there was a wrench.

It looked as if it had been there for decades.

The head was shaped like a skull.

“This gives a new meaning to a skeleton key,” Joe said.

They continued down the path until they reached the back of Denta’s Hill, a vertical wall covered with foliage. With just one swing, Billy hit the door dead on. The sound was like a gong they were sure half the town could hear.

Mike pulled a knife from his back pocket and started cutting away the vines.

A large, round metal door was behind them. In the middle was an indentation shaped like a skull. Billy inserted the wrench and turned it with all his might until they heard a loud squeak and a crack.

The door rolled away into the side of the hill.

“I’ve heard of these tunnels,” Joe said. “They date back to the early 1800s, before Iowa was a state. Most people are unaware that this area had a gold rush before California.”

“Yes. I’ve heard that some tunnels run all under the town,” Mike said.

“This might be an entrance to those tunnels.”

“We have five days. Do you want to explore?”

If you knew that a disaster was coming and the only way out of town was to walk a path you were unfamiliar with, what would you carry with you?

You realize that whatever you leave behind will be destroyed. But you also know that you are very limited in what you can take.

I grabbed my phone, my tablet, and a go bag I already had containing a few changes of clothing, some medications, emergency food for three days, and a flashlight. I added a few bottles of water.

That was all.

After a few hours, my mother called. She hadn’t heard from Joe. He was supposed to be helping her get ready, but he seemed to have disappeared.

I thought nothing of it and went to help her.

The next day, September 29th.

Four days left.

Joe still hadn’t been found. I tried to call him but didn’t get an answer. People from all over town were coming to me for advice. They wanted to know if they could leave early or if they should wait.

They wanted to know what the cylinders said.

I played the next one for them.

“Get out of town as soon as you can. It would be better to leave during the day. You will be happy to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I do give you this warning: avoid the gold. It will be the death of you.”

Avoid the gold!

I had no idea what that meant. The people were questioning me, but I had no answers.

“I don’t know any more than you. I’m listening to the cylinders just like you are. We’ll all find out when we leave. I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I’m using today to get my mother ready and take care of any other last-minute things I may need.”

“We’re following you,” said a voice from the crowd.

“Yes! We’re all following you.”

They all seemed to be in agreement.

My mother was not the fastest fox in town, nor was she able to carry that much. I got her a motorized scooter to help her get around more easily. It had a basket in front and another in back where she could carry anything she needed.

The night went by in a blur.

Thursday morning, September 30th, came faster than I wanted it to.

Three days left.

I arrived at the tree early, around 4:30 AM. I searched for the tool but couldn’t find it.

The tunnel was already open.

“Joe,” I thought.

By 6:00 AM, hundreds of people were gathered near the entrance to the tunnel. Some carried backpacks. Others pulled small wagons. Parents carried children too young to walk the distance. A few people brought far too much and were quickly convinced to leave most of it behind.

And then there was my mother, flying down the trail at high speed on a motorized scooter.

These people were looking for me to lead them.

Something I had never agreed to.

I wasn’t a leader.

A week ago, the house was nothing more than a fixture in my grandfather’s stories. I could see it whenever I drove by, but I never thought about owning it. Never dreamed about going inside.

Now, hundreds of lives depended on whether I had correctly understood the voice of a 10-year-old boy recorded on an 80-year-old cylinder.

And more people were still coming.

I wanted to wait for my brother to show up, but he never did.

And he still wasn’t answering his phone.

Before we entered the tunnel, I played the recording from my phone one more time.

“Get out of town as soon as you can. It would be better to leave during the day. You will be happy to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I do give you this warning: avoid the gold. It will be the death of you.”

Avoid the gold.

Those three words bothered me more than anything else.

As we entered the tunnel, everything seemed to go smoothly. The ground was level and easy to walk on. There was no rough or rocky ground, so my mother was able to ride over it. It was wide enough for four or five people to walk side by side.

Old wooden beams supported the ceiling. Every few hundred feet, we passed another tunnel branching off in a different direction. Rusted tracks ran along the ground through them.

Nobody ventured down them.

They were all following me, looking to me to lead them.

I kept straight.

After about an hour, I saw footprints coming out of a side tunnel. They were traveling in the same direction we were, but they quickly faded away.

This gave me some hope.

I imagined that Joe and his friends had already made it out.

We continued walking.

Another hour in, there were more footprints leading into a side tunnel. There was also a backpack lying on the tracks.

I recognized it.

“Joe.”

I picked it up.

It was his.

His phone was inside.

I told everyone to stop.

“I have to find my brother.”

“We’re coming with you,” several people said.

“No. You have families. Keep moving.”

“That’s my son,” my mother said.

“I will bring him to you. You can’t drive that thing over the tracks.”

I asked three men to come with me. Everyone else continued down the main tunnel.

We followed the footprints.

“Joe!”

I screamed at the top of my lungs, but there was no answer.

“JOE!”

Still nothing.

“Joseph King!”

Then I heard something.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

It wasn’t loud, but somebody was hitting the tracks.

The sound traveled.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

We followed the sound.

The tunnel opened into an enormous chamber.

I stopped.

Gold.

It was everywhere.

Gold dust covered the ground. Veins of it ran through the rock. Chunks of gold-bearing rock jutted out of the tunnel walls.

Old mining equipment was scattered around the chamber. Several wooden carts were still partially filled with ore.

Then I understood.

The gold rush.

I had heard of an Iowa Gold Rush, but I had never put much stock in it. The stories dated back to the early 1800s.

California’s Gold Rush lasted from 1848 to 1855. According to the stories, Iowa’s Gold Rush lasted from 1800 to 1802, and then it was abandoned.

It was never said why.

But that wasn’t important.

“Joe!”

Bang!

Bang!

“Sam!”

It was faint.

It was Billy.

We ran toward the sound and found a section of the tunnel that had collapsed.

“Billy?”

“Sam! We’re in here!”

“Is everybody OK?”

“We’re alive, but Joe is hurt. Hurry!”

We started moving rocks.

It took nearly an hour before we made a hole large enough to see through.

Joe was lying on the ground, covered in blood and unconscious. His legs seemed to be crushed. Billy and Mike were beside him.

We continued to dig. Billy and Mike helped from the other side.

Eventually, we were able to fit through.

“Are you all OK?”

“We’ll survive,” Mike said. “But Joe…”

“What happened?”

“Billy wanted a souvenir.”

Billy looked down.

“I saw the gold. I thought one little piece wouldn’t hurt.”

He pointed toward a pickaxe.

“One swing. That’s all it took. The tunnel started to collapse. Joe pushed me out of the way.”

Two men used pieces of wood and a jacket to make a stretcher.

Billy reached down and picked up a small piece of gold.

I slapped it out of his hand.

“You guys didn’t hear the message from the cylinder, did you?”

“What message?”

I played it again.

“I do give you this warning: avoid the gold. It will be the death of you.”

“I almost died getting it.”

“And you might die keeping it. Leave it!”

The six of us put Joe on the stretcher and carried him out of the tunnel.

“Sam,” Joe said. “I knew you’d find us.”

He looked at me, smiled, and fell back asleep.

We returned to the main tunnel.

The rest of the trip seemed to take forever.

Every step reminded me of the warning.

Avoid the gold.

The voice knew.

It knew about the meteorite.

It knew about the bridge.

It knew my family wouldn’t believe me.

It knew about the gold.

Whoever that boy was, he knew everything.

After more than 12 hours underground, I saw something ahead.

Light.

The light of the full moon beautifully illuminated the end of the tunnel.

People started cheering.

We exited the tunnel to hugs and kisses from friends and family who were glad to see that we had made it out alive.

To our surprise, ambulances were waiting for us. My mother knew that something must have happened to Joe when he didn’t meet us before we entered the tunnel.

Joe was taken to the hospital.

His left leg was broken in three places. Both arms were broken. He had several cuts, a few cracked ribs, and a punctured liver.

But he would live.

My mother and I stayed with him the entire night. In the morning, I went back to the tunnel.

Friday, October 1st.

Two days left.

People continued to come through the tunnel.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

Thousands.

From morning to evening, they continued to come. The sun sank below the horizon, and they continued to come by moonlight.

Saturday morning, October 2nd, arrived.

A few more people came through.

“Is that everybody?”

I don’t know who asked the question. I wasn’t there. When I was told the answer, I was somewhat disturbed.

“Unfortunately, no! There are about 50 who refuse to leave. They say we’re crazy and are trying to convince others to stay.”

I couldn’t understand.

They had all heard the message.

Or at least heard about it.

They had all witnessed the destruction of the school and the bridge.

Did they believe the destruction of the town wouldn’t happen?

They were the crazy ones.

“We still have the rest of the day. Hopefully they’ll use their brains.”

I said those words under my breath. Nobody really heard me.

But I knew everyone else was thinking the same thing.

That night, I remembered something.

The cylinders.

There were 12.

I had listened to most of them, but not all.

I pulled out my phone and checked the recordings.

One remained.

It started with classical music. I didn’t recognize the piece. It sounded like a violin. It lasted for only 30 seconds.

“Sam, are you listening?”

I was happy to hear his voice.

“Did you like the music? That was me playing. I assume you got everybody out of town. Most everybody. The rest—their blood is on their own hands. Don’t go back for anyone. It’s not safe.”

I didn’t get any sleep that night.

I was worried about the people who were still in town. Most of the night, I stood over Joe’s bed. I’d watch him sleep, and then I’d go to the family waiting room and watch my mother sleep.

Sunday, October 3rd.

I stood outside the hospital with Joe. He was in a wheelchair. Most of his body was covered in casts.

“You sure this is going to happen?” he asked.

“After everything you’ve seen, you’re asking me that?”

“I’m just saying. I’d be perfectly happy if this was the first time the kid was wrong.”

“So would I.”

At 10:17 AM, the ground moved.

It was just a gentle tremor at first, but we could still feel it.

Moments later, it returned violently.

Even from miles away, we could see a cloud of dust rising into the sky.

News helicopters showed us what we couldn’t see from where we stood.

Frankenshire was gone.

Completely gone.

Buildings collapsed.

Roads split apart.

The high school was destroyed.

Denta’s Hill partially collapsed, sealing the tunnel we had used to escape.

The earthquake lasted only two minutes.

120 seconds, and it was over.

120 seconds was all it took to change the lives of more than 21,000 people.

120 seconds was all it took to destroy a town that had stood for more than 150 years.

But the town wasn’t the buildings.

It wasn’t the roads.

It wasn’t the school.

The town was the people.

And the people were alive.

Most of them, anyway.

The people settled into nearby towns. We were all less than a 15-minute drive from each other. While it was impossible for our lives to continue as normal, the fact was that our lives continued.

When it was deemed safe to do so, I returned to the ruins of Frankenshire.

To my amazement, I learned that one building had survived the quake.

The old house on West Ervan Road.

Against the orders of the authorities, I went inside.

I knew it was stupid, but I felt deeply compelled to retrieve the phonograph. I took it back to my new home in Hinsdale.

In a hidden compartment, I found another cylinder.

“Sam, are you listening? That means you went back into the house. That was stupid. Shame on you. But since you did, there are a few things you must know.

“First, the tunnels for the gold mines ran all under the town. That’s why the collapse was so great. Your house was the only property with no tunnels under it.

“Second, my name is Michael King. Great-Grandpa Bryan created a time machine, sort of. It’s built into the phonograph.

“Third, Frankenshire will be rebuilt. No matter what happens, keep the house in the family.

“Oh, before I go, I have to warn you. Next July, you will receive visitors from another planet.

“Don’t trust them.”

Frankenshire was eventually rebuilt.

Every October 3rd, I visit the old house.

I never went inside again.

Sometimes I sit out front for hours.

Listening.

Just in case.