The Mystery of the Beckoning Voice
The Mystery of the Beckoning Voice

      John woke with a start. Something startled him. Yawning,
he ran his fingers through his hair and listened. A faint voice
was talking. Where was it coming from? The voice grew louder.
“Good morning John,” it cooed. Was it coming from outside?
      John slipped on his jeans, grabbed his jacket and stepped
out into the sunshine. The morning air was cool and refreshing.
The voice continued to beckon, “John, follow the path to the
woods.” He walked into the woods behind his home. The thick
trees and brush closed in behind him. What am I doing? John
      Again a voice, almost a sigh, spoke to him. “John, follow the
path to the right.” Shaking his head, John obeyed following the
narrow obscure path. “Stop; turn around,” the voice demanded
this time. “Take the path to the right.”
      The hair on John’s neck prickled, “I did,” he whispered.
“Who are you? Where am I going?”
      The voice, now with a disgruntled manner, said, “Turn
around John.”
      John kept shaking his head but continued walking. Then he
thought this is foolish. He turned around and picking up pace
began retracing his steps.        
      “John! John! Please turn around. John, please turn
around.” Reluctantly, John obeyed. The voice, now calm again,
instructed John, “Walk back to the path that led to the right.”
John obeyed. “John, walk 15 paces straight into the woods.”
John obeyed.
      John found himself standing in front of an ancient live oak
tree, its branches blown and tangled by the wind.
      “John, please reach into the crook of the tree.” Hesitantly,
John obeyed. Reaching above his head, he found a hole in the
ragged bend of the tree’s trunk. He waited for the voice to
continue. Nothing. He began to search the hollow. “John, please
reach into the crook of the tree.”
      “I am,” John barked. His fingers touched something. “What
is this?” He curled his fingers around a cool hard object. The
voice calmly spoke. “John, retrieve the object.” Clutching it, John
pulled his hand from the hollow in the tree. A strong gust of
wind sent leaves whirling. He opened his fist. His trembling
hand held a small metal box. The tin was rusty and old. Dried
dirt and decayed leaves stuck to the once gleaming surface.
John brushed the top of the box. An inscription decorated the lid.
      An attempt to open the box was disturbed by the voice.
“John, very good. Turn around and walk out of the woods.” John
clutched the small box and began retracing his steps. The voice
spoke, “John walk to your house.”
      By the time he reached his home, storm clouds were
overhead and rain was falling. The day had darkened. John
burst into his house, slamming the door. He rushed to his den.
      Whispering to it he said, “What is hidden in this box?” He
slowly lifted the metal lid. A slight twang rang through the room
as metal scraped against metal. Peering inside, he saw a neatly
folded piece of white paper. Carefully unfolding it, John read
aloud. “Happy Birthday Dad, welcome to the world of Geo
      Sitting back in his chair, John chuckled, remembering his
birthday party the day before. His son had pushed the small
yellow gadget into his pocket reminding him that it was turned
on and would be leading him to a secret spot.
      Reaching deep into his coat pocket, he pulled out a bright
yellow radio like object. He smiled at it now realizing it was this
that had talked him through his journey. He pressed the button
to off, and then back to on. A husky voice immediately broke the
silence. “Good morning John.”
      John smiled and turned the thing off. “John,” the voice
continued. “John follow…” He pulled out the batteries “…the
path to the right.” Alarmed, John shook the small GPS radio.
Thunder boomed above his house. Lightning struck a tree and
flames shot into the air. John sprang to his feet. He rushed to
the window and threw the instrument into the burning tree.
      The voice stronger now boomed from inside the flames.
“John, you have,” silence…then, “recalculating, recal c u l a t i n
g.” All was silent. The storm had passed. The tree—completely
gone. John’s house-completely gone, including John.
      Laying on the sidewalk the small yellow GPS unit lay. Later
that day, a young man stood looking down at it. He picked it up.
A voice from within began speaking. “Good afternoon Dave,
please walk to the end of the street.” Dave, puzzled, but
intrigued, obeyed. The voice continued. “Dave follow the path
into the woods.” Dave obeyed. The voice so clear, so distinct—
was John.

Copyright by Kathleen B. Brosius
February 21, 2011