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October 15-October 21, 2006
October 15, 2006
“Nothing too major, though,” Chang says. “Claire's not shy, but she's still a good girl—not the kind of girl who's looking to rush into bed with somebody. And I like that.”
“I hear that,” I say, wiping syrup from my mouth as we sit in the crowded dining hall for brunch. “And good for you. I'm glad you guys are going somewhere.”
Chang raises his eyebrows. “Speaking of which, Claire telling me you and Emma seem to be rekindling a little something.”
I chuckle.
“Well c'mon man. She's telling me that. You're always talking about that group project you were doing with her.”
“That was a class thing. I was looking out for my grades.”
“You were looking out for more than that. And then on top of everything, the two of you disappear from the party.”
“I walked her home.”
“Is that as far as you walked her?”
“It is,” I say, taking another bite of spongy pancake. “It was kind of weird. I mean, I don't even know how we got that far. It was just like one thing led to another—and then we were both standing there, looking at each other. And once we were there, I feel like anything could have happened.” I poke the last bite of pancake with my fork, and drag it through what's left of the syrup on my plate. “But then she looked away, and I looked away. She thanked me for walking her home, and went inside. That was it.”
“Why'd you let her go?”
“It's just—when we got there, I didn't know what I wanted to do. And I didn't want to jump into something, because it's like, if I do something with her, it's gotta mean something.” I look away. “I wasn't ready to do something like that.”October 16, 2006
“Hi, I've got a story I thought someone should report on,” a woman's voice says. On the Monday of a slow news week, there are few words an editor would rather hear.
I look up. Our seems nervous, wringing her hands. She's got deep dark rings under her eyes. She looks young—probably a first year.
“Right that way,” Sam says, pointing his hand to me before proceeding out of the office, on his way to class. The girl turns and half smiles, before her cheeks shake back to normal, and she makes her way toward me.
“Hi, I'm Preston ,” I say, reaching out my hand. “I'm the news editor. How can I help you?”
“I have a story. And I know it's going to sound kind of far-fetched—but I swear it's a real story.”
I lift my legal pad from my desk and take my pen out from behind my ear. “Well don't worry about that. If you have something for me to report on, then I'd be more than happy to hear about it.”
“Okay.” She half smiles again before going on. “So, some weird stuff has been going on around my floor lately.”
“All right. Weird how?”
“Well, the thing is, there was this guy who lived on my floor two years ago—James Kendrick. And I heard he killed himself.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah, I've heard of that.”
She looks at me, wide-eyed. “Well, like I said. Strange things have been happening. People getting locked out of their rooms, and they could swear they didn't lock their doors. And windows on the floor keep getting opened.”
“Interesting,” I say, as I lose interest.
“Like I said, it I know it sounds crazy. But on top of all the weird stuff, the other night, I was leaving the girls room, and there was this guy just outside. But it's like it was hard to see him—like he was halfway see-through.”
“Translucent?”
“Yeah, something like that. It really freaked me out so I shut the door. Then a minute later, another girl came in, and the guy was gone.”
“Okay.”
“So I told my RA about it, and he took it really seriously, and asked me to describe the guy. And I told him what he looked like—the short black hair, baseball shirt. Anyway, he said it matched.”
“It matched?”
“It matched the description of James Kendrick.” She leans in closer to me. “My floor is haunted.”October 17, 2006
“So the girl's news was that she has a ghost on her floor?” Sam asks, seesawing a pencil over his finger, tapping his desk with each end.
“Ever hear anything like that when you were news editor?” I ask.
“Not exactly. Could make for some interesting print, though.”
“Sure, it would it would be interesting if there was a ghost,” I say with a chuckle. “Then we could get TV coverage or something, and get Bower Hall on the map as one of those haunted buildings they show on websites. Heck, I suppose we're running that risk either way if,” I glance down at my legal pad to get the name right, “Shelly Orton has her way.”
“How do you figure?”
“Well don't get me wrong. It seemed like she really believed what she was saying, so I don't think she's making it up—or at least not most of it. But even if she believes she saw what she saw, and believes that this ghost is causing the other stuff going on on the floor, it still takes a special sort of person to go running to the newspaper.”
Sam smirks, leaning back in his chair. “What do you mean?”
“She might not even be conscious of it, but Shelly's out to make a name for herself. She wants to get the story out there—and wants to make sure she's a part of that story.”
“Interesting theory.”
“You don't agree?” I ask.
“You're probably right,” Sam says. “But ghost in a dorm? Girl who believes it, RA who's feeding her belief, weird shit going down on the floor—and a documented suicide two years ago? Even if it is all crock, this is the kind of story people are going to want to read.”
“You're saying you'd follow this story?”
Sam shakes his head. “I'm saying you should.”
October 18, 2006
Emma sat next to me in class yesterday. Before Hancock began her lecture, we made small talk. She talked about life on her floor, living with her new roommate, Maria. I talked about the floor below her, where Shelly Orton lives, and how there may or may not be a ghost haunting the premises.
Today, we ran into each other on campus. I was headed toward the Student Center , going into the office. Emma walked along, talking, not explicitly saying where she was headed.
“So,” Emma says as we get to the outside doors. “Do you have to get to the office right away?”
I shrug. “Not right this second, I guess.” I wait for her to go on, but she looks away. “You want to grab coffee—or a hot chocolate or something?”
Emma smiles. “I'd like that.”
And so we sit at the café once again. She opts for tea over hot chocolate this time, while I stick to my usual coffee. “So is it a good group this year?” I ask, after Emma mentions something about an Off Beats rehearsal.
“Really good.” Emma nods. “We have a lot of girls back from last year, which helps. And then the four new girls we took are really good, and one of them is a bass, so at least we have two good ones now.”
“Good, good.”
“And, of course, it helps to have a returning director,” Emma says, looking away. “Veronica's already hell bent on getting us to the finals this year.”
I smile, looking away myself. I think of asking how Veronica's doing, then think better of it, taking a long sip of coffee.October 19, 2006
In my time as news editor at The Window, I've found that you can't expect for news to fall into your lap. At a small school like Taylor , there's just not enough news to go around for you to walk into it. You have to look for it—seek it, know who to ask what questions.
Today's different.
I ran into Teri on my way out of class, on the way to the office. Then we came upon the College Police cars and the crowd of people.
Teri rushes ahead of me, to nearest group of people. “What's going on here?”
“Somebody threw a couch out the window,” a guy responds. “You believe it? A fucking couch?”
I work my away around the bulk of the crowd and do my best to peer over others. There is, indeed, a couch out there. One side of the frame—an arm rest legging for the couch—is busted off, in a rough break. There's broken glass all over, showing that whoever threw couch out here didn't bother to open the window first.
An officer emerges from the building, and starts talking to another. “What do you mean no one up there saw anything? How does know one see anything when a bunch of guys are hauling a couch out the sixth floor window?”
It's not until that moment that the connections all click in my head, just as Teri clicks a picture of the scene on her camera phone. We stand outside Bower Hall, peering up at the sixth floor—the very same floor where Shelly Orton lives now, and where James Kendrick lived two years ago.October 20, 2006
“I almost feel like an RA doing rounds around the floor like this,” Teri says as we make our way around the sixth floor of Bower Hall. It's a square shaped floor, with four hallways to go down, all interlocking with one another.
“Yeah. Of course, the difference is, we're walking around hoping to find trouble.”
“I've heard of RAs who do the same thing. They get off on the power trip.”
“I guess you're right. I'll maintain that most of them aren't on the look out for ghosts, though.”
“I thought you didn't believe in ghosts.”
“I don't,” I say, glancing in an open door as the guy inside looks up from his books, and out at us. “But that's why we're staking out the floor here, right?”
Teri shrugs. “Could be a ghost. It's probably just people. But either way, we're here to observe, and let people know whatever's going on.”
I turn to her. She's got a nice digital camera today, hanging by a strap from her neck. “All right, but tell me you don't have that camera with you because you're hoping to catch something freaky.”
Teri raises her eyebrows. “I'll catch whatever I catch.”
The floor's pretty lively now, in the late afternoon, with everyone out from classes, hanging out or getting a little homework done before the weekend kicks off tonight. On one hand, I think it's the least likely time for anyone to try something, with so many witnesses around. On the other hand, someone, or some group of people, threw a couch out the window in broad daylight. These people aren't shy.
“You know, I applied to be an RA a couple years ago,” Teri says.
“Is that so?”
Teri nods. “Got offered the job, too. But I decided working with The Window was more important to me, and I didn't want the two to get in the way of each other.”
“Do you regret it?
“Only when I'm paying my check for rent,” she says. “But no. The RA gig is cool, but I'm going to be journalist—or work in PR or something. Either way, this is the job that's going to get me where I want to go.”
“So what if I don't know what I want to do?” I ask.
“Then you'd might as well have fun while you're here.” Teri smiles. “And can you think of any better way to spend a Friday night than this?”October 21, 2006
Tired of walking the floor, Teri and I sit side by side in the sixth floor lounge of Bower Hall this afternoon. She has a Comm textbook spread across her lap, while I have this week's edition of The Window in my hands.
“I don't know how you can even look at the paper now,” Teri says.
“How's that?”
“We spend all week working on it. By the time issue comes out, the last thing I want to do is read everything over again.”
I turn the page. “Well you have to proof read the whole paper. All I look at is my own section. So everything else is still news to me.”
“I guess that makes sense. Of course, I still wouldn't read the sports section.”
“You're not into sports?”
Teri crosses her legs, leaning back. “I'm not a big fan, but it just seems especially pointless at this level. I mean, it's division three college sports—and most of our teams aren't even that good by that standard.”
“Well one of my suitemates is on the basketball team. I know he'd beg to differ.” Teri shrugs, and I scan the next page of the paper. “You know what's funny?”
“Hmm?”
“Since we got here, I haven't seen Shelly Orton up here once.”
“Well if she really believes in the ghost, maybe she's trying to stay away. That, or she could have gone home for the weekend.”
“I guess,” I say and glance at my watch. “Speaking of the weekend, I feel like we're killing ours here. Nothing's going on.”
“Nothing's going on now. But we're up here waiting for the next thing.” Teri pulls out her cell phone, looking at the time there. “But I guess we could call it a day.”
And with that agreement, we end our afternoon on the hall, heading to the elevator. Teri presses the button, and the door opens almost immediately, showing Emma inside. She smiles, before seeing Teri. In that instant, her face drops, and it's up to me to say hi. All Emma offers in return is a friendly nod.