The Haunting at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue


April 17, 2029 — Washington, D.C.

For weeks now, whispers have echoed through the marbled halls of the West Wing. Lights flicker in perfect rhythm. Doors slam without wind. And late at night, the Resolute Desk hums with a sound eerily like a growl.


This morning, the White House confirmed what had been rumored since March: a full-scale exorcism is underway.





An Unholy Inheritance



Officials close to the President describe the disturbances as “a lingering darkness” — not of faith, but of legacy. One senior aide, speaking on condition of anonymity, said bluntly:


“Whatever this is, it didn’t start with us. We think it’s what was left behind… from the Trump years.”


The phrasing has already taken root in headlines: The Evil Left Behind.


Some staffers claim the hauntings began after archivists reopened a sealed storage room in the basement early this year — one containing leftover furniture, framed photographs, and boxes marked “Transition 2021.” Since that day, aides report icy drafts, phantom footsteps, and faint murmurs repeating the words “fake news” through the corridors at night.





The Exorcism Itself



Shortly after 2 a.m., the Archdiocese of Washington dispatched a team of three priests, one historian, and a psychologist specializing in collective trauma. Their mission: to “cleanse the residue of fear, division, and unchecked rage” said to cling to the building itself.


Witnesses saw clergy sprinkling holy water across the Oval Office carpet while aides held hands in silence. One priest reportedly placed a Bible atop the Resolute Desk and whispered a line that made headlines within hours:


“The seat of power must not become the seat of possession.”


Outside, the Secret Service expanded the security perimeter — not for threat of protest, but “unidentified disturbances.”





Echoes of the Past



Theologians have begun debating whether this “evil” is metaphorical — the psychological shadow of years marked by chaos — or something more literal. “Every nation carries its ghosts,” said Dr. Marianne Holt, professor of political theology at Georgetown.


“When those ghosts are fed on anger and lies, they don’t just vanish when the administration ends. They linger. They seep into the walls.”


Staffers claim the most active hauntings occur in the Press Briefing Room, where microphones occasionally switch on by themselves, broadcasting distorted phrases that sound like campaign slogans.


In the Lincoln Bedroom, visitors report hearing pacing footsteps followed by heavy breathing — then silence.





Political Fallout



Opponents of the current administration have dismissed the story as “spiritual theater,” but others say the symbolism matters. “This is about cleansing the soul of the country,” one strategist said. “You can’t rebuild trust on haunted ground.”


The President has remained calm, calling it “a house in need of healing.” Sources say the President attends the rituals quietly each morning, standing by the doorway as clergy work.





What Comes After



The exorcism is expected to last three days. Whether the darkness will lift — or simply learn to hide — remains to be seen.

But for now, the world is watching as faith and politics collide in the heart of the American experiment.


The White House, once a symbol of unity, has become the stage for an ancient struggle: not between left and right, but between the light that leads and the shadows that refuse to leave.




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How America used to be....

Warning: This is a politically charged post. Let me just say that upfront. This isn't meant to be partisan, but I know some will take it that way. That’s not my intention. What I’m trying to do here is remind myself of who I am as an American—and what that’s supposed to mean. So much is changing, and it’s happening fast. The lines blur. This is me trying to hold onto what I know to be true, or at least what I  thought  was true. I was born in Seattle to parents who were also born in Seattle. I was adopted and raised by a Washington-born father and a Minnesota-born mother—both white. I say that up front because I want to shut down any “anchor baby” or “they must’ve been immigrants” assumptions. My birth parents were third-generation Irish-American. My adoptive father was a third-generation Englishman. My mother was third-generation German-Norwegian-American. I grew up in a Lutheran home, taught that Jesus Christ was the Son of God and that the Ten Commandments were a guide to l...
Read more

Dream

Night lays a hand on the window, and the kettle hums its small promise. I set my phone face-down, listen to the dogs settle, and breathe until the room remembers me.  Outside, leaves loosen their grip without regret. Inside, I practice the same—opening my palm, not to let go of anything in particular, but to stop clutching at shadows left behind by thoughts. Somewhere between the whistle of the kettle and the quiet after, a truth arrives without knocking: I am allowed to want a life that answers back. The clock ticks its small permission as I slip into bed—naked to the night, like the day I was born. I close my eyes and feel the dogs’ warm weight as they turn, find their circles of comfort, and drift; I follow them into a dream where I walk alone down a windy cobblestone street, looking side to side for light, for warmth, for love. In the distance a soft glow erodes the darkness, slowly roiling toward me along the stones, and through its golden shroud I see bountiful trees and tall...
Read more

A Thief Named Time

 “Time is a thief,” I say to the window, fogged by my breath and the steam from my coffee. “It steals your thoughts, emotions, and youth.” “Hey,” the waiter says, topping me off. “We don’t get many thieves in here before noon.” “I’m serious,” I reply. “Time passes in the blink of an eye. You turn around and twenty years have passed.” A chair across from me scrapes. A man in a well-worn coat slides in without asking. His watch has no hands. “Name’s Time,” he says. “I pay in memory.” “Figures,” I mutter. “Hair a little thinner, laugh lines deeper, and crow’s feet around the eyes. Yet my mind still sees a bright, exuberant twenty-something kid who has the rest of his life in front of him.” Time smiles, gentle, almost apologetic. “I didn’t take your brightness. I just… traded it for texture.” “I enter into shock when I look in the mirror,” I say, “to see a face looking back at me that I don’t recognize. How do I make peace with that?” “Talk to the mirror,” Time says. “It talks back whe...
Read more