When A Birthday Concert Turned Into A Ghost Story
The actual song playing:
"Let's make tonight the weekend / I don't wanna wai-ait..."
David Guetta & OneRepublic, “I Don’t Wanna Wait”
20 years go by with your friend, and wow, you're pretty much family at this point.
Like, those sewing classes you took at Emily Griffith Technical School, when your head ping-ponged between the sewing teachers as they vied for power and authority.
Or that time you decided to make Christmas PJ bottoms, calling yourself Elf Co. while listening to 93.3 to the very band, OneRepublic, you'd see in 2026 at the Hollywood Bowl.
If you've been reading along in past blogs, or maybe my book Lamplighter: Poems, you've been introduced to my friend. She's the inspiration behind the poem "Raven Haired".
My friend, C, flies in on a Thursday. We drive up to the Bowl on Friday, which takes us 3 hours. Because it's LA. The traffic is real.
The weather is Florida warm. And Californians are not having it.
The band doesn't have an opener. They are the full show.
OneRepublic started in the place we became friends, the same year we became friends. I know C said this was for my birthday, but it really felt like a celebration of friendship.
It ended with Fireworks (as proof, above) as part of the Bowl's Summer series finale.
When C asked about going, my one caveat was getting a hotel. A 3-hour return trip was too much. But I had the perfect hotel in mind.
What's more classic than a two-story motel with a bright neon sign in Burbank?
I've stayed at the well-priced Safari Inn twice before. The choice is a vibe that felt very Hollywood.
And I got a somewhat refreshing sleep on slightly lumpy pillows.
For my part, I slept through the whole night.
Until...
We apologize for briefly interrupting your story.
For the last year, our author Michael and I have been planning his next book about his time as a part-time Ghost Hunter.
For the last several months, we've been in the editing phase.
The thing is, I am not sure how I feel or think about Ghost Hunting. If I were to frame Michael's story, it would be Skeptic Humorist Goes Ghost Hunting.
The real title isn't that, but more appropriately "Spirit Chasers" (out Fall 2026, October).
Michael's book wasn't on my mind at all before, during, or after the concert. He had my edits and was working on them.
7 AM visitor.
The room was dark because C shut the blinds the night before. She sleeps best in complete darkness. With a neon sign blazing all night, it was a smart move.
I flipped on my back.
She washed her hands after using the restroom and went back to her bed by the door.
Lying on my back with a sheet and thin blanket covering my shoulder, I wasn't thinking of anything other than getting up and going to the bathroom.
That's when I felt it. The firm pressure of a hand, fingers and all, pressing my shoulder through the blanket.
It felt like someone trying to wake me, only I was already wide awake. And pillows don't have fingers.
Ignore and Move On.
I didn't say anything to C. She was in her bed on her phone.
My eye caught movement across the TV, like a shadow of someone walking by.
I still didn't say anything.
I turned my head; the phone's light illuminated C's face.
This was where Michael's manuscript came back to me (I can't remember the exact chapter), but it reminded me of the movement of light. Maybe the light telegraphed her shadow onto the TV.
It took me a moment, but again I said nothing.
Awake with a full bladder, I decided to use the restroom.
The pressure of the hand wasn't in my head. I continued to dismiss it. I wasn't going to spook myself out.
I washed my hands and went back to bed. I was ready to ignore everything else, but just as I was about to lay down, I noticed the basket.
Coffee, Tea, and Creamer, but no Cocoa.
Last night, I looked through the hospitality basket for cocoa. Not that I was going to drink it, but because I wanted to see if it was there. Just in case.
I was too tired.
The basket sat on a tray in front of the coffee pot. The tray had a small lip.
In this moment, the basket was lying on its side on the sink counter in front of the tray (not on it).
"C, did you knock the basket over?"
If she was offended by my question, she didn't say, but her "No" came out like, what basket, and why are you asking?
I pointed out the basket.
"Oh, no. I would have noticed that."
Same, C. Same.
"Yeah, and when you were blow-drying your hair, I would have noticed it then, too."
"Yeah, for sure I would have noticed it."
At this point, I decided the best thing to do was put it back on the tray. All the packets were just as I remembered them, only on their side.
After a couple more moments, we both decided to get up for good. There was one test I wanted to perform...to knock over the basket.
What do you think happened? Everything flew out of the basket. I only tapped it. There was no logical way to recreate the basket lying on its side with everything in it. You might be able to set it that way, but not knock it over.
It defied physics.
Head Games
Maybe editing Michael's book played head games. Or maybe...I was over exhausted from the concert.
Yet, no other time, anywhere else, has this happened. There was no build-up in my mind. I wasn't looking for it. I resist the idea of ghost hunting.
I am an editor of an Indie Press who desires to find and support authors telling their story. It's not my story.
This is a time when work overlapped into real life in a strange way.
I don't know what really happened. I didn't ask questions. Even the person at the hotel was shocked, saying, "I've never heard of anything like that."
Let this stand as the first official recorded haunting of the Safari Inn, at Burback (Room 226).
Because whatever it was, or is, I am really glad to have read and edited Michael's book. He helped me process and test my theories as a skeptic, not a true believer in whatever that was.
You only have to wait a little more than a month to grab your copy.
As for me and the press, we'll keep pressing on and not let any taps on the shoulder distract us.
I am curious, what would you do if you felt that hand?
Remind me sometime, and I might tell you about the Queen Mary at Long Beach.
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