The voice woke me up. It was a late-summer night in Wisconsin, 1993. The air was thick. My sheets stuck to me as I rolled over, trying to ignore the strange statement. Tomorrow was my third day as a high school freshman, and I needed all the sleep I could get. This farmhouse had been where Grandpa lived his whole life. Our family had moved in five months ago, after he’d passed away. Lightning had never struck.
BOOOOOM! Thunder rattled the windows. I opened one eye and searched the dark for the clock. 4:30 a.m. Too early to be awake.
Your house is going to be struck by lightning today.
The firm, male voice—not unlike Grandpa’s—spoke in my mind as I’d been drifting back to sleep. “It’s just your imagination,” I whispered to myself. Besides, what high schooler is afraid of a thunderstorm?
Still, the storm rolled closer and the flashes of lightning grew brighter through my bedroom window.
Your house is going to be struck by lightning today.
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