Diana's Writing Blog

“Oh, I’m so lost!” moaned Don. He was in the center of campus holding a map that the wind was fiercely trying to rip from his grasp. He looked in confusion at his surroundings, then back down at the map.

“Need some help?” a female voice asked. Don turned toward the source of the sound. There stood a girl a few years older than him. She had her long blond hair firmly clamped in one hand and her skirt clamped in the other to keep them from blowing in the wind. She smiled knowingly at him with Passion Fruit Pink lips.

“Yes! Help,” Don pleaded. “I’m looking for…” As he held the map out to her, the wind finally managed to catch hold of it and sent it sailing off into the distance. “Oh man!”

The girl laughed. Don glared at her. “Calm down,” she soothed. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t find my class and I’m gonna be late!” Don wailed.

“Let me guess, Parapsychology?”

“How’d you know?” Don asked.

“Freshmen always have trouble finding it. Come on, I’ll take you.” The girl set off down the path and Don trotted after her.

“I’m Don McGinnis, by the way,” he said, falling into step next to her.

“Katrina Adams,” the girl replied. She turned down a side path that Don hadn’t noticed. It ran between the Science and Math buildings.

“So, why’d they hide the Parapsychology building?” Don asked, to make conversation.

Katrina shrugged. “It’s such a small department. The building it’s in was abandoned until about ten years ago. The other buildings were built around it by then.”

They reached a building made of red and white brick. It was much smaller than its neighbors.

“Is this it?” Don asked, squinting and shading his eyes against the sun to get a better look at it.

Katrina didn’t answer. Don turned and saw her staring at a man who had just pulled up to the building on a motorcycle. She gazed intently at him. He was in his mid twenties, with blonde hair and a leather jacket. Katrina gave a dreamy sigh as he disappeared inside the little red building.

Don’s eyebrows rose at her reaction. “Friend? Boyfriend? Family member?”

Katrina blinked and turned her attention back to him. “Huh? Oh. No. I don’t know who he is. He shows up on campus every few weeks. As far as I can tell, he’s not a teacher or a student.”

“Weird,” Don remarked. But he had more pressing matters to deal with: “So, uh, is this it?” He gestured toward the building.

“Yep. Just go through that door and straight ahead. You can’t miss it. It’s the only classroom.”

“Well, thank you very much, Katrina,” he said, shaking her hand.

“You’re welcome, Don.” She started to go, but turned back. “And good luck with Professor Stilgate, I hear he’s a little odd.” She gave him a goodbye smile, then left.

Professor Stilgate was nowhere to be seen when Don entered the classroom. There were only about twenty-five students in the room that had been built to hold 150 comfortably. Don chose a seat in the front row, which was completely empty.

The room had an auditorium style design: 150 seats divided into three columns with steps between them leading down to a large desk that sat in front of three marker boards. The strange features in the room were the old bookshelves that lined the walls. They were empty and some looked as though they had been burned a long time ago.

Don turned in his seat as a man who could only be Professor Stilgate bustled down the aisle. As he descended the stairs, wisps of red and white hair floated about his head. Unlike the other teachers Don had seen, Professor Stilgate didn’t wear a tie or jacket; he wore only dress pants and a shirt. Professor Stilgate reached the desk and set a snakeskin briefcase down on top of it with a thud that echoed in the suddenly silent room.

Professor Stilgate straightened his wire-rimmed glasses and beamed up at his students. “Good morning, class. I’m Professor Stilgate. Welcome to Parapsychology 101. We’re going to wait a few more minutes; it always takes a while for some of the less resourceful students to find the place. While we’re waiting, why don’t all of you up there move down here and fill the seats next to this fine, brave gentleman.” He smiled at Don who grinned back. Stilgate looked up as a group of students entered, nervously. “Come in, come in. Don’t be shy. We’ve been waiting for you.”

He waited until the last of the students found seats, then said, “Let me begin by welcoming everyone once again to Parapsychology 101. Today I’m going to outline the basic syllabus and my expectations of you but first, a word on the building: before 1952, this building was the college library, hence the size and placement of the building, as well as the abundance of bookshelves. In 1952, on one brisk morning in January, the building caught fire. It was a relatively tame blaze because of the weather and snow and resulted in only moderate property damage. There was, however, one victim: Mrs. Blakely, an old woman who worked in the library for 30 years. Since her death, visitors and passersby have reported hearing strange noises, seeing objects move, and even seeing Mrs. Blakely herself. As a result, the building remained empty and subsequently abandoned until ten years ago when the college was hard pressed to find a place to house the parapsychology department.”

He took a deep breath. “Well, that’s enough about that. I simply wanted to warn you in case you saw or heard anything odd. I will add that Mrs. Blakely is one of the more harmless ghosts. And don’t try to blame missing or forgotten homework on her,” he warned. “She doesn’t like that.”

The rest of the time was spent discussing everyone’s opinions on the existence of the paranormal. By the end of class Don was sure that this would be his favorite course. He stayed after to ask the Professor more about Mrs. Blakely.

As he approached Professor Stilgate’s desk, a man walked down the aisle. Don recognized him as the man Katrina had been admiring. He’d taken off the jacket and wore a tight white T-shirt and silver cross on a chain around is neck. Professor Stilgate smiled when he saw the man. “Nick, hello. Hold on a moment, won’t you.” He turned to Don. “Yes, young man? What can I do for you?”

Don had forgotten his initial question. He asked instead, “Who’s he?” He pointed at the man Professor Stilgate had called Nick.

“Nick Powell, an ex-student of mine. He’s a paranormal researcher. He works out of an office in this building.”

“A paranormal researcher?” Don echoed. “Like someone who chases ghosts?”

“Exactly like that,” Stilgate answered. “Hold on a moment, I’ll introduce you.” He waved Nick over. “Nick, this is–Don McGinnis, isn’t it?” Don nodded. “Don, this is Nick Powell.”

“Nice to meet you,” Nick said, shaking Don’s hand. “You’re a student of Professor Stilgate’s?”

Don nodded. “Seems like a great class,” he said.

“It is. It convinced me to major in Parapsychology,” Nick replied.

Don was intrigued. “You can major in Parapsychology?”

Nick and Professor Stilgate exchanged amused glances. “Why of course you can, dear boy,” Stilgate replied. “Perhaps Nick would even take you on as an assistant.”

Nick shot the Professor a look. “I don’t really need an assistant right now,” he said, uneasily.

“But you haven’t even seen my resume,” Don argued. “I can type and file and do research and…”

“I’ll think about it,” Nick interrupted.

Nick watched as Don ran up the stairs and out of the room. He turned to Professor Stilgate and crossed his arms. “Thanks for putting me on the spot, Professor.”

“I put you on the spot to get you to agree,” the older man replied.

“I don’t need an assistant!” Nick exclaimed.

“You do, my boy. You need help with the research, the filing, and most definitely the cleaning. And, more importantly, you need the company.”

Nick opened his mouth to disagree, but Stilgate interrupted:

“How many times have I seen you work night and day for weeks on end to get a case solved? You sleep in the office. Do you even have an apartment anymore?”

Nick didn’t answer.

“I thought as much. I won’t order you to hire an assistant; I’m merely asking you to consider it.” His manner softened. “Now, how is your present case going?”

He motioned for Nick to walk with him up the stairs.

“Not that great,” Nick confessed. “Every night, writing –well, pictures–appear on the walls. I can’t figure out how they get there. Mrs. McCullough, that’s the woman who lives there, cleans the writing off every day, but it keeps reappearing.”

“Could it be a hoax?”

“Could be. I’ve got the house under surveillance: cameras, motion detectors, mikes, the works. If anything moves in that house tonight, I’ll know…in triplicate.”

“You said it was a series of pictures?” Stilgate asked.

“Yeah, it’s the same series of drawings. Here.” He handed him some photographs of the strange brown drawings that appeared on Mrs. McCullough’s flowered wallpaper.

“Native American,” Stilgate observed.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, but I can’t place the symbols. They’re not from any of the tribes around here, not that there are any tribes around here. There is one other possibility: Dr. McCullough, her husband, was an anthropologist and a specialist in Native American art. It could be his spirit trying to send a message to his wife. The only problem with that theory is that he died three years ago and this phenomenon has only been going on for a few days.”

“Sounds like you’ve got quite the mystery on your hands,” Professor Stilgate remarked. He now stood in the doorway of his office. “Don’t you wish you had someone to help with the research?” He disappeared into his office.

Nick huffed in annoyance and retreated to his own office across the hall. Professor Stilgate had been right about one thing: Nick really needed to clean his office. It was a ten-foot by fifteen-foot room with a desk, two file cabinets, and a couch. The desk had mounds of papers strewn across it and overflowing onto the chair. The floor had stacks of books and more papers covering all but a small path to the desk and another to the couch.

Nick waded over to his desk and dug through the papers. He liberated his laptop from underneath the pile and waded back out of the office.

He left the Parapsychology building and took the path toward the center of campus. His initial plan had been to sit in the park and input Mrs. McCullough’s case file into the computer, but as soon as he stepped out the door he decided that it was too windy. Instead, he walked to the library that spanned the basement of the English building.

He chose a secluded table against the back wall and sat down. The library was a much better choice for a work area because now he could connect to the Internet, via the jack on the wall, and look up Native American art when he was finished. Nick opened the file and spread the materials out across the table: site report across one side, pictures across the other.

Don’s classes were done until three o’clock. After lunch, he decided to explore the campus. Eventually, he found his way into the library that was underneath the English building. It was a huge room that stretched across the entire length of the building. So, when Don managed to wander over to the exact corner where Nick Powell had chosen to sit, Don took it as a sign that he was meant to be the man’s assistant.

“Hi,” he said, flopping into the chair next to Nick’s.

Nick stopped typing and looked up. “Hi,” he replied, then returned to typing.

“So, uh, what ya working on?” Don asked, picking up one of the pictures strewn across the table. It was a picture of what looked like Native American drawings on white, flowered wallpaper.

Nick glanced over at him, but didn’t stop typing. “Those drawings keep appearing on an old woman’s walls during the night. I’m trying to figure out how and why.”

“Hmm.” Don studied the picture. “Oh, I know: Indian burial ground. The house was built on sacred Indian land and now the spirits are angry at the woman who lives there. Like in that movie.”

Nick stopped typing and rubbed his temples. “I don’t think so.” He took the picture Don was holding and put it back with the others.

Don picked up another picture and studied it intently. “Well, what do you think it is?”

“I don’t know,” Nick replied, “but I know the art isn’t from any tribe that ever lived around here. Right now, I’m trying to find out what tribe it is from.”

“Can I help?” Don asked, hopefully.

Nick looked up again in annoyance and took the picture Don was holding. “I’m okay…thanks.” He went back to typing.

Slowly and unobtrusively, Don slid two of the pictures off of the table and into his coat pocket. “Well, bye. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Nick muttered without looking up.

Don retreated to the other side of the library and looked up Native American art on the card catalog computer. He picked out an armload of books and sat down at a table.

Nick rifled through yet another pile of papers on his desk: still no luck. He huffed angrily and started back on the first pile.

“Is there a problem?” Professor Stilgate asked, appearing in the doorway.

Nick sighed and flopped into his chair. “I could swear I’m missing two pictures from the McCullough case.”

Stilgate looked over the cluttered room. “Perhaps it was Mrs. Blakely,” he suggested with a grin.

Nick laughed, in spite of himself. “Are you still telling that tired old ghost story?”

Stilgate nodded. “Do you know that you are the only one who has ever bothered to check into that story?”

“And I found out your dirty little secret,” Nick replied. “There never was any Mrs. Blakely.”

“Don’t spread that around,” Stilgate warned.

“Of course not,” Nick replied.

“You know, that was how I knew you’d make a good investigator: just the right combination of skepticism and belief.”

Nick looked at his watch. “Speaking of investigating, I’ve gotta go. I’m supposed to be at Mrs. McCullough’s house in twenty minutes. She said the paranormal activity starts around ten, when she goes to bed.”

“Good luck,” Stilgate said.

Suddenly Don burst through the door. “Inuit!” he exclaimed happily, waving a book and two photographs at the surprised men.

“Are those my pictures?” Nick demanded. He snatched them away. “You stole these!”

“Borrowed,” Don corrected. “And I found out what they are: Inuit art.”

“Aren’t the Inuits only found in northern North America?” Stilgate asked. “Why would an Inuit be haunting Mrs. McCullough’s house?”

Something occurred to Nick: “Wait a second, I remember her saying something…” He dug through his file to Mrs. McCullough’s statement. “Here: ‘No change in home environment, except that a package arrived for her husband: a harpoon.”

“It’s a bit strange that her late husband would still be receiving packages,” Stilgate remarked.

“That’s why she mentioned it,” Nick replied. “There was no return address. Apparently, Dr. McCullough got packages from grave robbers from time to time.”

“This harpoon, it could quite possibly be Inuit,” Stilgate said.

“Could be,” Nick replied.

“So, some Inuit hunter is angry because…why?” Don asked.

“Well,” Nick said, “most hauntings occur when a spirit is confused or upset. Usually, it’s when the resting place is disturbed or changed.”

“Like, say, if someone steals the dead guy’s sacred harpoon?” Don suggested.

Nick nodded.

“So, these writings could be a warning to return the spear…or else?” Don asked.

“We have to get over there,” Nick announced. He headed for the door.

“What are you gonna do?” Don demanded, running after him.

“Get the harpoon,” Nick replied. He reached his motorcycle and hopped on. He fastened his helmet, then looked at Don who stood on the side walk watching. “You coming, or what?”

Don didn’t need anymore prompting. He grabbed the extra helmet and hopped on behind Nick.

They reached Mrs. McCullough’s house ten minutes later. Nick parked the bike and they ran for the door. He knew something was wrong: the only light from the house was a flickering orange glow from the living room. The front door handle turned, but it wouldn’t open.

“What’s wrong?” Don demanded.

“The door won’t open,” Nick replied. “I think it’s barricaded.” He ran to the window and peered in. The living room was on fire and a floating harpoon was attacking the closet door.

Don peered in the other window. “Uh-oh. What do we do?”

Nick grabbed the closest heavy object, a ceramic planter full of geraniums and hurled it through the window. The fire flared as fresh oxygen rushed in. “Come on,” Nick said, leaping into the living room.

Don followed, warily. “Now what?” he shouted over the roaring fire that was devouring the furniture.

“Try to put the fire out,” Nick told him. “I’ll find Mrs. McCullough.” The truth was, Nick had a horrible feeling that he knew exactly where Mrs. McCullough was. He ran to the closet that the harpoon was hacking away at. So far, the haunted weapon had taken no notice of them, but that changed as Nick approached: the harpoon abandoned the closet and lunged at Nick. He ducked. “Look out,” he yelled as the harpoon veered toward Don.

“Whoa!” Don ducked too and swatted it away with a flaming blanket. The harpoon lunged back toward Nick. “Look out: angry Inuit,” Don shouted.

Nick ducked underneath the harpoon and grabbed hold of the shaft. The harpoon spun around, trying to skewer him. Nick moved with it as it spun, careful to stay on the unsharpened end. “Little help here?” he exclaimed through gritted teeth.

The harpoon suddenly reversed its momentum and sent Nick hurtling into the wall. He managed to keep only a weak grip on the weapon as he fell. Luckily, Don grabbed the harpoon before it could turn and attack Nick. Don held it long enough for Nick to renew his grip and together they managed to restrain it.

“Now what?” Don demanded.

“Throw it in the fire!” Nick exclaimed. “If we destroy it, the ghost will lose its grip on reality.”

“If you say so,” Don replied. He coughed heavily; by that time the smoke was getting thick.

The harpoon bucked and squirmed like a wild animal. They wrestled it over to the flaming side of the room, but couldn’t manage to force it down into the flames. “Not working,” Don announced, though it was painfully obvious. Don tried to reposition his grip and almost lost it altogether.

“Hold on to it!” Nick exclaimed.

“Ya think?!” Don shot back. “Okay, how do we get it down there?” Don motioned with his chin to the fire that was too close for comfort but too far away to shove the harpoon into.

“We don’t,” Nick answered, “we get the fire up here. Can you hold it alone for about thirty seconds?”

“I guess we’re about to find out,” Don replied.

“Okay, I’m going to let go and grab that rug that just caught on fire. Ready?”

Don nodded solemnly.

Nick released his hold and dove for the rug. He grabbed it, careful to keep the burning side as far away as possible, and flung it over the harpoon. “Help me wrap it up,” he commanded Don.

They bundled the harpoon, avoiding the flames on the edge. The added weight weakened the harpoon enough so that Nick and Don could force it down into the flames consuming the couch. They watched as the rug-cocooned weapon burned. “Is it dead?” Don asked after a few minutes of calm.

Nick opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the sudden whoosh of the fire as it inexplicably went out. “Uh…I guess so.”

Don stared at the place where the fire had been. “Why–”

“Shh,” Nick interrupted. “Listen.”

In the silence, they heard muffled cries coming from the closet.

“Mrs. McCullough!” Nick exclaimed. He and Don rushed to the closet and helped the old woman out. Her hair and her pink nightgown were both grayed from the smoke, but she seemed unharmed. “Are you all right?” Nick asked.

Mrs. McCullough coughed but nodded. She gasped in horror at the charred shambles of her living room. “My home,” she rasped. She descended into a fit of coughing. Nick supported her and patted her back, soothingly. “It was so sudden,” she continued, “The power went out. I-I heard a thump from the living room and went to check. The fire just appeared! Then that thing came at me…” She shook her head.

“It’s gone,” Nick assured her.

“We should get outside,” Don pointed out. “The smoke is starting to get to me, too.” He eyed the door that was barricaded with a fallen bookcase. “Maybe we should use the window.”

Nick nodded. Don climbed through the window and, between the two of them, they boosted Mrs. McCullough over the windowsill and onto the porch. Nick took out his cellphone and tossed it to Don. “Call an ambulance,” he told Don, before turning away from the window and venturing back into the smoke filled room. The remains of the rug and, inside it, the harpoon lay where he’d thrown them. Nick knelt and scrutinized the harpoon, not wanting to be caught by surprise. It was charred and in several pieces. Warily, he picked up the burnt remains and carried them out of the house.

Three days later, Nick sat in his office reading an email from Dr. Davison at the Society for the Preservation of Inuit Culture in White Horse, Canada:

Mr. Powell,

The remains of the harpoon have been returned to the burial site. The authorities are looking into the illegal looting of the area.

Thank you for your assistance,

Dr. Michael Davison

Nick looked up as Don burst in and stumbled over a pile of books.

“You really need to clean this place,” Don muttered as he picked his way over to the couch. “You wanted to see me?” he asked, clearing a spot and sitting down.
“Yeah,” Nick said, shutting the laptop. “I’ve been thinking and…maybe I could use an assistant. If you still want the job.”

Don jumped up. “Really?…I mean, cool.”

“Yeah. It won’t be that exciting,” Nick warned. “Just typing and filing.”

“And cleaning,” Don added. “I refuse to work in an office that looks like this. As your assistant, I proclaim that this room shall be cleaned.”

Nick scoffed. “Go for it. I’ve still got to finish typing the follow up on the McCullough case.”

“Fine.” Don gathered up a stack of files and opened the filing cabinet. He promptly dropped the files.

“Hey!” Nick exclaimed. “That’s the opposite of cleaning.”

“Why are there clothes in your filing cabinets?” Don demanded.

“They get dirty if I leave them on the floor,” Nick replied simply.

“Okay, say it with me: fi-ling cab-in-et,” Don enunciated. “Meaning a cabinet for files. Not clothes!”

Outside, Professor Stilgate listened to the two men fight. “Well,” he said. “It sounds like the beginning of a friendship, doesn’t it Mrs. Blakely?”

Mrs. Blakely, of course, didn’t answer.

End