The Day Seabrook Vanished

It started—innocently enough—with the fog.

Seabrook had seen fog before. Being a coastal Southern California town, it was practically built on the stuff. Fog clung to the cliffs on quiet mornings like a sleepy cat refusing to get out of bed. Fog rolled across Highway 1 as if testing whether drivers were awake. Fog drifted through the harbor so consistently that locals jokingly called it “the Sixth Resident.” They had Tinsel, the wandering pelican; Buster, the German shepherd who always escaped his backyard; and Fog, who was simply Fog.

But this morning’s fog was different.

For one thing, it was too thick. You could walk through it and lose track of your own shoulder. Waves crashed in the distance but sounded muffled, like someone had wrapped them in blankets. The fishing boats had delayed their usual departures; their small radios squawked with uncertainty. “Visibility zero—waiting it out,” one captain had said.

And at the Viking News building—an old brick structure wedged between a taco shop and the public library—the newsroom staff filtered in one by one, shaking off condensation like wet cats.

Crime reporter Sam Ihle arrived first, as usual. His glasses fogged up instantly the moment he stepped indoors, and he stood in the hallway wiping them clean with the edge of his button-down shirt.

Political reporter Jodie Williams-Ihle, glowing with her usual Audrey Hepburn elegance despite the damp air, stepped inside moments later. “It feels like London out there,” she said, unraveling a silk scarf that had done exactly nothing to protect her hair.

Sam smiled at her—too long, too shyly, the way he always did. “London without the charm,” he answered.

By nine, the entire newsroom was assembled. Pat McKean, the editor-in-chief, squinted at the growing darkness outside. “Tell me someone didn’t schedule a solar eclipse without sending me a memo.”

Junior editor Grace Orozco stood on tiptoe at the window. “It’s not the fog. The cloud cover’s thickening.”

“Marine layer on steroids,” muttered war correspondent Ryan Hall, who had seen meteorological strangeness in half a dozen countries. “This isn’t normal.”

Sports reporter Danny Van Hoosier swung his backpack onto his desk with exaggerated force. “Buddy, I had to drive here with my hazards on. Hazards! In SoCal! If this keeps up, we’re gonna need boat licenses.”

Human-interest reporter Michael Simmons tapped his keyboard as though checking for updates from his neighborhood. “The sky looks bruised.”

“And it feels too cold,” photographer Jimmy Pruitt added, rubbing his hands together. “How do you get fog and cold? Fog is supposed to be warm and cozy. This feels like someone forgot to pay the heating bill for the planet.”

“It’s fine,” Pat said dismissively, though his eyebrows betrayed concern. “Strange weather happens.”

The newsroom attempted—unsuccessfully—to settle into routine.

10:00 A.M. – THE DRIZZLE

By ten, drizzle began tapping lightly against the windows. It was innocent enough—the kind of light, flaky drizzle that Californians dramatized on social media.

Jimmy dutifully captured a photo of the raindrops clinging to the glass. “This’ll go on our Insta,” he said. “Caption: Day 45 of the Great Seabrook Monsoon. Send help. Or tacos.”

Grace chuckled. “Cute. Overly dramatic. Perfect for us.”

“Dramatic? We haven’t begun dramatic.” Danny pointed at the increasingly churning sky. “This looks like the opening shot of a disaster movie.”

“Which one?” asked gossip columnist Katherine Evangelista, spinning in her chair. “We talking Twister or 2012? Or that cheesy one where the shark flies through the tornado?”

“Please don’t invoke flying sharks,” Michal Olzewski murmured from behind his monitor. “We barely survived the raccoon invasion of 2022.”

Pat finally snapped his laptop shut. “Listen, everyone. Weather changes. Seabrook’s not going to fall into the ocean.”

Something thundered outside.

Except it wasn’t thunder. Not exactly.

It was more like a long, low groan—nature clearing its throat.

Sam glanced at Jodie, eyes wide. “That was weird.”

“Very weird,” she whispered back.

Michael pressed his palm against the window. “The drizzle’s turning sideways.”

“Because the wind’s picking up,” Ryan added.

The fog, instead of dissipating, swirled like it was being stirred by a cosmic spoon.

11:30 A.M. – CLOUDS LIKE STEEL

By lunchtime, dark, bruise-colored clouds sank lower and lower until they nearly scraped the rooftops. The sky no longer looked like California. It looked like the North Sea.

The wind sharpened.

Trash cans toppled over. Palms bowed in submission. Signs creaked along Main Street.

The newsroom’s windows shivered.

“We should probably do a weather story,” Pat said reluctantly.

“Understatement of the year,” muttered Danny.

“Sam, Jodie—you’re our best writers. Get out there and figure out what’s happening.”

“Out there?” Sam repeated, staring at the swirling fog and diagonal rain. “You want us to go outside in that?”

“Yes. Preferably before the building collapses.”

Ryan grabbed his jacket. “I’ll go too. If this is a storm forming out of nowhere, I want to see it.”

Pat blinked. “You’re not officially assigned to weather.”

Ryan shrugged. “Storms and war zones have a lot in common.”

Jimmy stood as well. “I’m coming for photos.”

Grace bit her thumbnail. “Should we worry about lightning?”

“Should we worry about everything?” Katherine countered.

Nobody answered.

NOON – THE WIND ARRIVES

The team stepped outside into what felt like an entirely different city.

The drizzle had become steady, pelting rain. The wind slammed into their bodies with surprising force. Fog rushed past them like ghosts fleeing for cover.

Jodie clung to her umbrella, but the wind instantly inverted it with a humiliating fwop.

“Forget this.” She tossed it aside and took Sam’s arm for balance.

Sam swallowed, both terrified and thrilled to have her holding him. “The wind’s like…like we’re in the Great Red Spot of Jupiter.”

Danny, who had followed to check on his car, shouted above the cacophony, “WE’RE STILL IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA, RIGHT? BECAUSE YOU’D EXPECT THIS IN FLORIDA, LOUISIANA, OR THE CAROLINAS! DEFINITELY NOT SOCAL!”

His voice was nearly ripped away by the gale.

Jimmy tried snapping photos, but the gusts kept hijacking his stability. “Hold still!” he begged the weather, as though it might listen.

Ryan, always unfazed, marched ahead like he was back on assignment in Afghanistan. “We need vantage. Something high. If we can get to the bluff—”

“Are you kidding?” Sam yelled. “Going up there is a death wish! We’ll get blown straight into the ocean!”

“That’s why it’ll give us better data.”

“Ryan, we’re journalists, not storm chasers!” Jodie shouted.

Ryan shrugged. “Difference is negligible.”

But before they could argue further, Michael came bursting out of the building behind them, waving his phone.

“You guys! The tiles on the roof of my local ward just got blown off! The whole congregation’s texting each other about emergency repairs!”

Even the wind paused as if to gasp.

“That’s…not good,” Sam said.

“Which ward?” asked Grace from the doorway, her hair whipping around her face.

“San Gabriel First. The Spanish branch meets downstairs. They’re all sending videos. Looks like a hurricane hit it!”

Danny groaned. “This day is getting better and better.”

Something metallic screeched down the street—like a giant dragging a rusty sword. A large street sign flipped on its pole, snapping loose with a terrifying clang.

“Okay,” Pat declared from the doorway, bracing himself against the wind. “Everyone back inside before Seabrook literally sends you to Oz!”

They retreated.

Barely.

12:45 P.M. – INSIDE THE MAELSTROM

The newsroom looked darker than ever. Emergency lights flickered once, then steadied. The glass rattled with every wind strike.

Pat paced. “We need to call the mayor’s office. Find out if this is some freak meteorological event.”

“Or a mini-hurricane,” Danny added.

“There are no hurricanes in California,” Michal muttered. “Historically impossible.”

“There were no raccoon invasions historically either,” Grace countered.

Jimmy scanned his camera. “Half my shots are blurry because the wind tried to grab the lens.”

“Let me try to stabilize them,” Grace offered.

A sudden pounding rattled the front doors—wind slamming them with the force of fists.

Sam’s voice wavered. “Maybe we should go downstairs?”

The basement was old but solid—former Cold War storage.

“No,” Pat said, trying to pretend he wasn’t sweating. “Not unless something actually breaks.”

Something immediately broke.

One of the roof gutters tore loose, clattering onto the pavement.

Michael flinched. “That was right above us!”

Ryan looked calmly at the vibrating windows. “This could escalate into structural damage. We need a plan.”

“Should we call emergency management?” Katherine suggested. “Or FEMA? Or—what else handles danger? The Avengers?”

“Avengers aren’t real,” Michal said.

“So we’re doomed?” Katherine cried.

“Not unless the wind starts speaking Latin and demanding tribute,” Ryan said dryly.

Jodie looked out the window. “The color of the sky is terrifying.”

Everyone gathered near her.

The cloud cover had shifted into something churning—almost circular. Fog twisted upward in spirals. Rain slashed diagonally. The wind howled like something alive.

Sam whispered, “Okay…maybe the Jupiter joke wasn’t a joke.”

1:00 P.M. – GALE FORCE

At exactly 1:00, as though following some secret cosmic schedule, the storm escalated.

Wind slammed into the building so violently the walls shook. Loose objects rattled. Papers flew. A stack of old archives toppled onto the floor.

“OH COME ON!” Pat shouted over the roar. “WHO KEEPS LEAVING THESE STACKED ON THE EDGE OF—”

The rest of his sentence was drowned out by a magnificent, thunderous WHOOOOOOOSH that shook the windows so violently everyone ducked instinctively.

Danny clutched a desk for balance. “WHAT IS THIS? A WEATHER APOCALYPSE?”

Michael stared at his vibrating phone. “My cousin just sent a video—the steeple at the ward is leaning. Leaning! Like the Tower of Pisa!”

“We’re actually in a cyclone,” Ryan said, as if diagnosing it clinically.

“There’s no cyclone on the forecast!” Pat yelled.

“It formed over us,” Ryan replied.

Another horrifying boom echoed—a dumpster sliding down the alleyway like a hockey puck. Something metallic clanged across the street. A palm tree bent at a 45-degree angle.

Jodie grabbed Sam’s arm again. “What if the windows break?”

“They won’t,” Sam said.

A window cracked.

“Okay!” Sam shouted. “WE’RE GOING DOWNSTAIRS!”

Nobody argued.

1:05 P.M. – THE BASEMENT

The basement was dim, cold, and stocked with old emergency supplies: bottled water, dusty canned peaches, broken chairs from the 1980s, and one ugly mannequin holding a fire extinguisher.

Danny immediately covered its face with a tarp. “I don’t want to die looking at that.”

Pat slammed the heavy door shut, muffling the wind to a deep, ominous growl.

Everyone sat on overturned crates or old office chairs. Flashlights illuminated nervous expressions.

“Okay,” Pat began. “Roll call. Everyone here?”

“Yes.”

“Present.”

“Here.”

“Unfortunately,” Danny muttered.

Sam counted silently. “We’re good.”

Jodie hugged her knees. “Does anyone’s phone have reception?”

“No,” Grace said. “Service is dead.”

“My ward group chat is sending messages through sheer willpower,” Michael said, studying his screen. “But even those are delayed.”

Ryan leaned back against a filing cabinet. “We wait it out.”

“How long?” Katherine demanded. “Until the wind stops sounding like demons fighting?”

“As long as it takes,” Ryan said.

Danny rubbed his temples. “You know what? This feels like we’re inside the Great Red Spot of Jupiter.”

Sam pointed at him. “HEY—that was my joke.”

“Yeah, but now I feel it on a spiritual level.”

A long rumble echoed overhead—a sound like the building was being rolled on its side.

The team fell silent.

Jodie whispered, “We’re going to tell future interns about this, aren’t we?”

“If we survive,” Danny said.

“Danny!” Grace hissed.

“I’m just saying!”

1:30 P.M. – STORIES IN THE DARK

To keep the tension from spiraling into panic, Pat clapped his hands. “All right. We’re journalists. We document. Let’s treat this like a story. Everyone share where they were when the storm hit.”

“What if that makes us realize how doomed we are?” Danny asked.

“It’s either that or sit in silence listening to the building scream,” Pat said.

Fair point.

So, one by one, they shared.

Jimmy talked about photographing the first drops of rain.

Grace talked about how the fog felt “thick like soup but cold like punishment.”

Michael recalled the exact moment he got the text about the church roof.

Danny recounted his drive through what he described as “soggy Armageddon.”

Ryan spoke about the wind patterns and how it reminded him of storms overseas.

Katherine admitted she had tried to google “portents of doom” before the Wi-Fi died.

Michal said he was simply trying to drink his tea in peace.

Sam and Jodie shared a look—quiet, warm, grounding amidst the chaos.

Sam spoke softly. “I was thinking how…some storms creep in quietly. You don’t notice the shift until it’s right on top of you.”

“Emotionally or meteorologically?” Ryan asked.

“Both.”

That earned a laugh—anxious but welcome.

Jodie nudged him. “And I was thinking this would make one heck of a story.”

Sam nodded. “Assuming we live to write it.”

Danny groaned. “Stop saying that!”

2:00 P.M. – THE EYE OF THE UNKNOWN

Forty-five minutes crawled by.

Then—suddenly—the wind quieted.

Not gradually.

Instantly.

The silence was deafening.

Everyone sat frozen.

“Is it over?” Katherine whispered.

“No,” Ryan said calmly. “Storms don’t stop like that unless you’re in the eye.”

“But this isn’t a hurricane,” Michael said.

“Define hurricane,” Danny muttered.

Nobody moved.

Up above, the building groaned one last time…and then fell eerily still.

Pat exhaled shakily. “Okay. Small groups. We go check the upstairs.”

“Why small groups?” asked Grace.

“Because if the roof gave out, I want someone alive to report it.”

“Pat!” she gasped.

“Kidding. Half-kidding. Mostly kidding.”

They split into two groups.

Sam, Jodie, Ryan, and Jimmy led the first.

The stairwell creaked under their feet. Wind still hissed faintly through tiny cracks. When they emerged upstairs, they saw…

Devastation.

Not catastrophic.

But shocking.

A street sign lay on the sidewalk like a fallen knight. Palm fronds littered the road like discarded spears. Several roofs had missing shingles. A mailbox had toppled sideways. One of the library’s decorative banners flapped in tatters.

But the sky—oh, the sky.

A massive circular opening had formed above Seabrook. The clouds spiraled around it in slow, ominous rotation.

It looked exactly like the eye of a storm.

Or the center of Jupiter’s Great Red Spot.

“Okay,” Danny said from behind them—he had crept up despite being told to stay downstairs. “I take it back. We’ve been teleported to Jupiter.”

Jimmy whispered, awestruck, “This is…beautiful.”

“Beautiful and terrifying,” Jodie added.

Ryan studied the movement of the clouds. “The eye won’t last long. We have…maybe twenty minutes before the second half hits.”

“Second half?” Sam squeaked.

“Yes.”

“Of this?”

“Yes.”

Sam turned very pale.

They rushed downstairs.

2:30 P.M. – THE SECOND WAVE

The eye collapsed faster than expected.

At 2:32 p.m., a fresh, monstrous gust struck the building.

Lights flickered again. Dust fell from the ceiling. Something roared outside like a freight train.

Danny screamed. “I HATE JUPITER!”

Sam grabbed Jodie’s hand. She didn’t let go.

Pat shouted over the noise, “DUCK AND COVER!”

Everyone dropped behind crates or tables as the storm unleashed its fury.

Rain hammered the windows. Wind slammed the walls. Something—hopefully not a cow—skidded down the street.

The building shuddered.

And yet—

It held.

Minute by minute, the rage outside softened. The howling faded. The thunderous gusts dwindled.

By 3:10 p.m., the storm had exhausted itself.

By 3:20, the rain downgraded to a mere drizzle.

By 3:30, a timid beam of sunlight pierced the clouds.

4:00 P.M. – EMERGENCE

Cautiously, the team climbed back outside.

The air smelled metallic and clean. Streets were littered with debris, but buildings stood. People emerged from homes, shops, and cars with dazed, bewildered faces.

A news van from the next town over rolled in, its camera operators filming the surreal aftermath.

Danny stepped into the street, hands on his hips. “Well. That was…something.”

Michael checked his phone. “My ward roof is…well, it’s definitely gone. But nobody’s hurt.”

“That’s good.” Grace squeezed his shoulder.

Pat took a deep breath. “All right, everyone. Let’s do what we do best. Go gather interviews. Photos. Notes. Everything. This is the biggest story Seabrook’s had in decades.”

Ryan nodded solemnly. “A once-in-a-lifetime storm.”

“Or once-in-a-millennium,” Sam offered.

“Or Jupiter sent us a postcard,” Danny said.

Sam raised a hand. “Still my joke.”

“Nope,” Danny replied. “It belongs to the people now.”

The team spread out, interviewing neighbors, photographing uprooted plants and shattered shingles, documenting the swirling remnants of the cloud formation overhead.

When Sam and Jodie circled back toward the newsroom, the sun was finally shining—weak, tired, but determined.

Jodie looked at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

They stood side by side in the quiet, breathing the damp, post-storm air.

“You know,” Sam murmured, “storms like this—they show you who you want to hold onto.”

Jodie’s cheeks warmed. “Do they?”

He nodded.

She took his hand again—on purpose this time.

“Well,” she said softly, “then this storm wasn’t entirely a disaster.”

And as Seabrook emerged into the strange brightness of the late afternoon, the Viking News team got to work—tired, shaken, but united—ready to tell the story of the day Southern California briefly became Jupiter.