Turbulence at Thirty-Five Thousand Feet

Waking to a violent shudder and the flashing of warning comms, I noticed former president John F. Kennedy now occupying the pilot seat. I told him straight, he was dead, in the wrong time or in the wrong place. His reply was a wink, and a warning of turbulence.
Though the forecast promised clear skies, the warden had advised against the route, warning of soulstorms, leaks in the Earth’s crust known to emit whispered echoes of the deceased. Despite a common phenomenon in the region, the weatherman had misjudged the omens and predicted clear skies. My primary concern, however, was the absence of our pilot. I feared he’d been displaced. He wasn’t in the cockpit and though my eyes still adjusted to the wakened world, I plainly saw some alien rejuvenation plaguing the plane and its corridors. Half a dozen new doors had spontaneously folded into the ceiling and floor and the spherical nose of the cockpit was now sharpened into geometry illusioned by any number of corners. Perhaps he’d gotten lost. Thankfully the door to the cabin was the only one open, the way remained clear. I told Jack I was going to stretch my legs. He seemed content in his role and flipped a flyer's cap onto his head as I left.
One of the hostesses was stood in the hall, her back against a cabinet. She breathed frantically into an oxygen mask, her eyes wide, shaken by the presence of ghosts. Some never grew accustom. I walked past, tapping her shoulder lightly, offering reassurance without commitment.

The cabin was malformed and misshapen by the invasion of amalgamated foreign rooms. One corner housed a small garden of tesla coils, the aisle was dressed in tinselled red carpet and several windows promised library wings and safaris that stretched beyond the parameters of the plane. It was more than illusion. Until we cut through the soulstorm, the aircraft was all these things in truth. Attendance had also doubled. All vacant seats were now occupied. Many passengers were feigning sleep, ignoring the phantoms that tried desperately to converse. Unimpressed by the living, two cowboys made likewise and tried sleeping under their wide-brimmed hats. One priest, an early settler, was irritating a businessman who sought to look right through him. Regardless, his face grew more irritated with every word. I saw the singer Ma Rainey, perched contently in a reclining chair. And Glenn Miller, whose presence upset my guts. I pretended he wasn’t there.

No pilot. I feared once the turbulence had past and old Jack was returned to the mist, there wouldn’t be anyone to fly us home. I met with one of my men and asked if he’d seen the guy pass through. Unfortunately, he’d chosen to unsee everyone as soon as we hit the storm. He said it was better that way, eyes forward and wait for it to blow over.
I agreed but couldn’t help measuring the faces that infested the cabin chamber. I recognized some of course, some were my own entourage. Many I’d met before departure or greeted mid-flight. But it was difficult to parse the dead from the living. My memory was unfaithful, and the cabin’s altered state only confused things further. I knew some of the famous, knew the cowboys, the puritans, and the cavaliers must be deceased. But the modern men, those dressed and speaking

in recognizable idioms, it was hard to know where they belonged.

Kennedy stood in the doorway, took off is hat and waved for everyone’s attention. Evening people, you sit tight. We’ll be outta this shortly. Coupla minutes and we’ll be home dry. Enjoy your flight.
Five minutes and JFK would be dust and the plane would plummet to the Earth. And the living would be forced to join him in oblivion. I thanked my man and carried on down the cabin, past an unbearably long line of passengers. A young boy with a yellow paper ‘S’ hanging round his neck was kicking the seat of a sleep pretender in front. Had he arrived with the others?
Ma Rainey threw me a smile, comforting and full of reassurance. Her eyes seemed to know and to accept everything that was happening. I smiled back. The hall at the back corkscrewed vertically up and round and seemed decorated like a hotel suite. Halfway along I found the toilet. Occupied. I knocked several times. No one replied.
You’re going to have to make it quick. I said, thumping impatiently. Planes don’t last long without a pilot!
Don’t sweat, I left the president in charge, came the muted reply, then a flush. A belt buckle rattled, and the sound of water briefly splashed from the tap. The door opened.
Jesus Christ, I said. If you don’t get back quick, we’re in real trouble. He walked past without a glance, back round the tubular hallway.
I ain’t Jesus Christ, he said. But you could try the other cubicle.
He was walking along the ceiling, still fumbling with his belt, He was walking so slow, and I sensed a violence bubbling within me. I snapped and told him to hurry. The path from one side of the cabin to the other seemed elongated. The cockpit was waning from view. I followed him

closely, wearing my impatience in my heavy steps and stern breathing. I waited in the cabin as he went through the door.
There was a sudden jolt and the hostess from before dropped to the floor. I stumbled but caught myself on an armrest. Another tremor shook the plane, and I was forced to take a seat. The hostess sat up and wrapped her hand through a leather hoop by the cabinets. The shaking lasted less than a minute. Soon almost half the passengers were disappeared, and the weird anomalies of the room were restored to the chambers of a mundane aircraft. The storm passed, and the estranged souls returned to the Earth.

Max Barker is short story and comic book writer interested in the weird, the oneiric and the sublime. Work published in Arboreal Magazine, Soft Star Magazine, and Propagule.

Twitter: @ghostmutttt