Are You Listening?

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

Bryan Egar King was born on June 5, 1912, 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 he would amount to great things.

The family was poor. Melvin worked on a farm while Margaret cared for their five children. They lived in a two-bedroom house without running water.

At 12, Bryan went to work in the mines. He secretly saved most of what he earned, determined to be, as he put it, “Not rich. Just well-off.”

At 18, he purchased a five-bedroom house on West Ervan Road and started a business selling radios and other electronics. He married Marie Dillinger, and they had five children.

Their youngest, Michael, was my great-grandfather.

Michael died when my grandfather was very young. Although Grandfather inherited the house, he never lived there. In fact, he was told never to enter it.

Something happened there that he never talked about.

Grandfather died a few months ago and left the house to me with one piece of advice:

Keep it in the family.

I wish he had also told me what to do with the old dump.

Nobody had entered the house in nearly 80 years. I expected everything inside to be falling apart.

I was wrong.

The furniture was covered with dust, but otherwise, it looked as if the family had left planning to return a few hours later. The dining room table was still set. Upstairs, the beds were made, clothes hung in the closets, and reading glasses rested beside an open Bible.

The 21st chapter of Luke.

Next to the desk was an old Thomas Edison-style phonograph. Beside it sat a wooden box containing 12 cylinders.

Curiosity won.

I placed the first cylinder on the phonograph and turned the crank. An orchestra began playing what I thought was Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

The second cylinder started the same way.

Then the music died.

A voice replaced it.

A boy.

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

He sounded about 10 years old.

Then he called my name.

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

The music suddenly returned.

I stopped the phonograph.

Someone was playing a joke.

But how?

The house had been sealed for nearly 80 years.

I hired a home inspector, who confirmed that there were no other points of entry.

Maybe there had been another Samuel in the family.

It was possible.

I played the third cylinder.

“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!”

Frankenshire, Iowa, wasn’t exactly known for earthquakes. There wasn’t even a recorded tremor in the town’s history.

I played the fourth cylinder.

“Samuel Egar King, please listen. An earthquake will shake Frankenshire to rubble in seven days. October 3rd, 2027. Get everybody out of town. Nobody will survive. Act now.”

I called my mother and brother, Joe.

Neither believed me.

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

“Wait. Listen to the next cylinder. I haven’t heard it yet.”

The message started immediately.

“Samuel, your family won’t believe you. You must show proof. 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.”

“There you go,” I said. “If that happens, you’ll know I’m not pulling a prank.”

They left laughing.

That night, a massive meteor shower filled the sky.

The following day, I posted the cylinder’s prediction on social media. Most people thought I was writing a science-fiction story.

At 2:15, I was nervous.

At 2:20, I was hyperventilating.

At 2:25—

Nothing.

At 2:26, my phone rang.

Before I could answer, a sonic boom shook the sky.

A meteorite struck Lincoln High School.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then Joe spoke.

“How did you do it?”

“All I did was play the cylinder.”

“What does the next one say?”

“I hadn’t listened to it.

“Wait for me.”

Five minutes later, Joe arrived.

We played the next cylinder.

“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?

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

Joe believed me now.

So did others.

I posted the warning online.

Hours later, another meteorite struck the 12th Street Bridge and destroyed it.

People were listening.

The next morning, about 50 people stood outside my house.

“We want to hear the next cylinder.”

I moved the phonograph near the window and played it.

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

“Two miles into the woods on Rupereds Path, you’ll find a tree different from the others. Climb it. You’ll find a wrench with a skull-shaped head.

“Continue down the path until you reach the wall. Use the wrench to find a hidden metal door. Open it and enter the cave. Follow the tunnel to the end. It will take 12 hours.”

It was Tuesday, September 28th.

Five days left.

Joe and his friends Billy and Mike went looking for the tunnel.

They found the wrench and discovered the door hidden behind vines on Denta’s Hill. The wrench fit a skull-shaped indentation in the door.

Behind it was an abandoned mine.

Joe had heard stories that the tunnels dated back to a forgotten Iowa Gold Rush in the early 1800s.

The three decided to explore.

Hours passed.

Joe never came home.

September 29th.

Four days left.

People wanted to know when they should leave.

I played another cylinder.

“Get out of town as soon as you can. 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.

I told everyone I would leave the following morning.

“We’re following you,” someone shouted.

Thursday, September 30th.

Three days left.

By 6:00 AM, hundreds of people were gathered at the tunnel entrance. Families carried backpacks, food, water, and whatever possessions they could manage.

My mother arrived on a motorized scooter.

Everyone looked to me to lead them.

I wasn’t a leader.

But I apparently was now.

We entered.

The tunnel was wide and surprisingly level. Side tunnels branched in every direction, but we kept straight.

About two hours later, I saw a backpack lying near one of the side tunnels.

Joe’s.

His phone was inside.

“I have to find my brother.”

Three men came with me while everyone else continued.

We followed footprints.

“JOE!”

Nothing.

Then—

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

Someone was hitting the old railroad tracks.

We followed the sound into an enormous chamber.

Gold.

It was everywhere.

Gold dust covered the ground. Veins ran through the rock. Old mining equipment sat abandoned.

Avoid the gold.

“JOE!”

Bang!

Bang!

“Sam!”

It was Billy.

Part of the tunnel had collapsed.

“We’re alive, but Joe is hurt!”

We dug for nearly an hour.

When we finally got through, Joe was unconscious beneath the rubble.

“What happened?”

“Billy wanted a souvenir,” Mike said.

Billy looked down.

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

He pointed toward a pickaxe.

“One swing. The tunnel started collapsing. Joe pushed me out of the way.”

We made a stretcher from pieces of wood and a jacket.

As we prepared to leave, Billy picked up a piece of gold.

I slapped it out of his hand.

“You didn’t hear the last cylinder, did you?”

“What message?”

I played it from my phone.

“Avoid the gold. It will be the death of you.”

“I almost died getting it.”

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

We carried Joe through the tunnel.

“Sam,” he whispered. “I knew you’d find us.”

He smiled and closed his eyes.

More than 12 hours after entering, we finally saw it.

Light.

We emerged from the tunnel to cheering families.

Joe was rushed to the hospital. His left leg was broken in three places. Both arms were broken. He had cracked ribs and a punctured liver.

But he would live.

Friday, October 1st.

Two days left.

Thousands of people escaped through the tunnel.

Saturday, October 2nd.

One day left.

About 50 people refused to leave Frankenshire.

That night, I remembered something.

The cylinders.

There were 12, and I hadn’t listened to the last one.

I played the recording from my phone.

Classical music played for about 30 seconds.

Then—

“Sam, are you listening?”

I smiled.

“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 sleep that night.

Sunday, October 3rd.

I stood outside the hospital with Joe, who was sitting in a wheelchair, most of his body covered in casts.

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

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

“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.

A gentle tremor.

Then violent shaking.

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

News helicopters showed the destruction.

Frankenshire was gone.

Buildings collapsed.

Roads split apart.

Denta’s Hill partially collapsed, sealing the tunnel.

The earthquake lasted only two minutes.

120 seconds.

That 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.

When authorities eventually declared it safe, I returned to the ruins.

One building had survived.

The old house on West Ervan Road.

Against orders, I went inside to retrieve the phonograph.

I took it to my new home in Hinsdale.

That was when I discovered a hidden compartment.

Inside was another cylinder.

I played it.

“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 gold-mine tunnels ran all under Frankenshire. That’s why the collapse was so great. Your house was the only property with no tunnels beneath 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.”

I froze.

Michael King.

My great-grandfather.

The little boy had been Michael all along.

Then his voice returned.

“Oh, before I go, I have one more warning.

“On July 3rd, 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 go inside.

Sometimes I sit out front for hours.

Listening.

Just in case.

Read the Long Version