O.C. Writers

By Barbara Neal Varma // 

The first “stranger thing” happened a few hours before midnight.

Michael and I were in Santa Barbara for a getaway weekend. The grand plan: forget about work, do the tourist thing, and mess up sheets in a bed I didn’t have to make. Hot!

Along with the obligatory trashy lingerie, I’d brought along my laptop, hoping the change in scenery would cure a weird kind of writer’s block I’d been experiencing, one that didn’t entirely stop the flow of words, just the good ones.

It was around 9 p.m. when I finished setting up my computer in the, as advertised, “in-room business center.” I reached over to turn off the desk lamp.

Or tried to. Silly thing kept blinking back on no matter how many times I switched it off. That’s unsettling.

I called Michael over and reported the incident. Of course, when he tried, the light went out and stayed out.

“Obviously the ghost likes you better,” I said, trying to keep it light.

He smiled. “Probably a loose connection.” (Says every scary movie character right before the creepy guy crashes in.)

Later that night, a mysterious sound startled me awake, a single tone that grew louder every tense second. “What is that?” I asked, sensing Michael was awake, too.

“Not sure,” he said, getting up to investigate. I watched as he moved across the darkened room, his cell phone-turned-flashlight seeming to float in midair. A few random beeps later and the errant sound stopped.

Michael climbed back into bed.

“So…? What was it?”

“The dial tone was going off.”

My brow stayed furrowed. “You mean the phone on the desk? Why? Was it off the hook?”

“No, and that was the strange part. I had to physically lift the handset and hang it up again.”

“Probably another loose wire,” I said, mostly to convince myself. 

The next sound I heard was literally music to my ears: the radio alarm going off at 4:30 a.m. Time to get up, get writing. There was that writer’s block to conquer, after all.

I reached down to grab my slippers but came up empty—which didn’t make sense because I always keep them right next to the bed, especially in a hotel room lest my bare feet encounter something unidentifiable caked in the carpet.

I went in search of illumination and gingerly made my way over to the stubborn lamp from the night before. I turned it on and froze. There, set neatly on the desk chair, were my slippers.

I stared, transfixed, both believer and doubter in that suspended moment. I took in the scene: the glowing lamp, my waiting laptop, the singing phone now quiet. And again, my fuzzy pink footwear set just so, as if inviting me to put them on, have a seat.

Hey, you don’t have to scare me twice.

I tugged on my slippers, turned on the laptop, and didn’t stop writing until I had at least 500 words. Were they stellar? Destined for a Pulitzer? Not even. But I could see those elusive good words coming back and for that I was grateful. 

Once home, I searched the internet for other reports of paranormal activity at the Fess Parker Resort and Hotel, as it was called back then, but found none. No matter. Santa Barbara is known for its many writers both living and (cue eerie music) dead, so who’s to say that my spirit-muse that morning wasn’t a fellow scribe wanting to give me a helpful, if haunted, hand?

I still wear my “slippies’ when I write in the early morning. They warm my toes and remind me there is mystery and wonder all around us, and that we, as writers, are called upon to make our stories come alive on the page.

Plus, turns out fuzzy pink slippers go well with trashy lingerie. Which makes Michael a believer, too.

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BARBARA NEAL VARMA is a contributing writer to Orange Coast Magazine and has appeared in other notable publications, including The Atlantic. Her easy-humor personal essays have proven popular with readers, one gaining numerous hits on Orange Coast Magazine‘s website. (Hello: Desperately Seeking Donny.) You can learn more at BarbaraNealVarma.com.