A Call To The Twilight Zone

I lived in the OC for awhile. I'm sure everyone in town knew me, being the only brunette around. As long as we're in the hair confessional, let me also inform you that I am a hair snob. Needless to say, I have a four part-series dedicated to the topic with three variant covers.

I've been getting my hair cut at this place since they opened, maybe six years or more ago. My stylist is amazing. Oddly enough, on a quiet day the store feels like a scene out of Steel Magnolias, where everyone crowds around the chair and we converse. Not so much about potlucks and husbands, but OC things like boob jobs and bikinis.

I am always asked for stories about my recent investigations, but this time, the staff had a great story to tell me. A brother of one of the stylists is psychic, I am told. An empath, actually. About a month ago they decided to rent a van and go with the psychic brother, Billy, to a place in Chatsworth. It has been said that a long time ago, a girl died near an open field with a dirt road next to it. Most nights the girl can be seen walking near the side of the road. On the nights close to the anniversary of her death, she will follow the final path she walked and "relive" her death.

They set out with minimal information. Someone had the name of a shop near to where this field and road were. As they enter the town of Chatsworth and make their way in the direction they thought was correct, they use a cell phone to call 411 to get an exact address of the name of the shop and a possible cross street.

You know, when you call 411, (this is the number you call in the US to reach the operator to get general information; ie: addresses, phone numbers, the time), you will be put in touch with an operator that is probably somewhere in the middle of nowheresville, hundreds or thousands of miles away from where you are calling from.

The phone rings. The operator answers. The person with the cell phone gives the name of the town and the name of the store. He also asks for an exact address and phone number for the store. Instead of giving those, the operator begins to tell them they don't need that information. He tells them to: "Turn right here." They do.

"Do you see the mailbox in front of the little store with red paint? Turn left there"...and so on.

The "operator" then asks odd questions. Do they have a piece of string? Can they stop the car now and get out to get a small stick?

In the end, the "operator" leads them exactly where they want to go. The connection dies.

They are near a field and it is the golden hour, sun is setting, shadows creeping in. They sit there for a short time, maybe twenty minutes. It is rapidly getting darker. The driver starts the engine again and they inch very slowly along the dirt road. The driver, she cannot see what the others can. They see a white figure walking slowly along the road.

It is a female figure and she is walking toward them. The car engine is turned off as they all watch the girl in white advance. Suddenly, she is gone. Seconds pass, maybe 3, maybe 5.

The girl in white is there. Her face staring directly into the passenger side window. Then she is gone.

Photo by http://www.jorgebernal.info/

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