The Little Black Box

by K. J. Gillenwater

  “All right.” She set it on the professor’s desk and took the file. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to meet with him today, but I’ll do my best.” She placed Craig’s journal on the small table in front of the loveseat. “He won’t be needing this anymore.”

  He took the box and unlocked a cupboard behind his desk. “I’m counting on your discretion. This information is to come directly to me. The integrity of the project depends on it.”

  Inside the cupboard was a stack of notebooks and another black box.

  “I understand.”

  Chapter Six

  After leaving multiple messages on Sam Gunderson’s voicemail, Paula grew annoyed. Twenty-four hours after the professor had given her this new assignment, and Gunderson hadn’t yet returned her calls. She’d been sure to stress he’d be kicked from the program if he didn’t contact her by day’s end. What was wrong with this guy?

  Will was busy at the library again, so Paula had the office all to herself. She tried calling the subject one more time.

  “Hello?”

  The sound of a human voice on the other end stunned her into silence. She’d dialed over twenty times and had only gotten the canned message. Had Gunderson had listened to all fifteen of her increasingly irritated messages?

  She tamped down her feelings. She had a job to do. Getting upset wouldn’t help matters. “Yes, this is Paula Crenshaw from the Paranormal Sciences department. I’m calling in regards to your participation in our research study—”

  “Uh, yeah. My phone’s been in my room since yesterday morning. McMahon held a poker tournament in his room last night. No cells allowed during game play, you know. I thought I was going to have a good run, but then I bluffed when I should have folded. I couldn’t leave without winning some of my money back, so I—”

  More than anything she wanted to interrupt Sam’s long-winded story about his rise and fall at the weekly dorm poker game, but she needed his cooperation.

  “Anyway, I missed most of my classes this morning.”

  When he paused for breath, she took her chance. “I need to meet with you. Today.” Dr. Pritchard hadn’t given her a deadline, but he seemed anxious for any news. “If we don’t figure out these irregularities in your reporting—”

  “Irregularities? You mean, I might get kicked from the study?”

  He sounded freaked out by that discovery. Guess he hadn’t listened to all the messages she’d left for him.

  “Yes.” She let that sink in. “I need to review your journal entries for the day in question. Plus, I’ll need to see where you activate the box.”

  “Shit. Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

  What an idiot. This guy was not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

  “The sooner we can discuss the problem, the better.”

  “Yeah.” Sam’s voice shook. “Yeah. God, if I don’t have that money—”

  “Sam.” Paula used a soothing tone. It sounded as if Gunderson was about to have a panic attack. “It’ll be all right. Just tell me when I can meet you.”

  “In an hour? I need to take a shower, and I haven’t eaten anything in a couple of days.”

  A couple of days?

  “That’ll be fine.” She needed information. Anything to calm the kid down.

  “Yeah, okay.” He’d come down a couple of notches. “Everything’ll be okay, right?”

  “I’m sure it will, Sam. I’m sure it will.”

  Why did he sound so scared?

  ***

  Where in the holy hell was Room 455? Paula wandered up and down the x-shaped wings of the fourth floor in Westfield Dormitory several times. They used some kind of crazy numbering system—nothing in numerical order or any other kind of order she could figure out. Plus, the doors were covered in dry erase boards, flyers, notes, and even silly string.

  She wondered fleetingly what she’d missed by living off-campus all four years of her undergraduate studies. She never would’ve traded the space her parents’ three-bedroom house had afforded, but some company beyond Lark and Peter, her perpetually disapproving brother, would’ve been nice.

  On her second pass down the halls, she walked more slowly to search for the right room. A muffled cheering emanated from the far end of the wing. A door burst open, and a dozen students poured out into the hall like clowns from a miniature car at the circus. One young man shook up a can of beer.

  A student of medium height and very slight build was the last one to exit. The crowd parted around him. The guy shaking the can of beer pushed his way toward the center, popped the top on the can, and let beer fizz and foam all over the poor fellow in the middle.

  “Congrats, Sam!” The beer spattered the targeted student’s t-shirt. Beer and foam flecked the crowd who cheered and surged forward in excitement.

  Someone from the crowd called out, “So when are you going to pay me back? You shouldn’t have a problem now, huh?” A hand reached out and ruffled the student’s foamy, wet hair.

  Sam? Maybe that was the Sam she was looking for.

  After the beer fizzled out, everyone started to disperse. Only a few remained, clapping Sam on the back or jabbing him playfully in the ribs.

  “Are you Sam Gunderson?” Paula moved closer to the thinning group of people.

  The guy with the now-empty beer can tousled Sam’s head. “You mean Mr. Millionaire?”

  “Mr. Millionaire?” Paula slid her gaze to the smaller student in the center.

  “Shut up, Dorlan,” Sam pushed his friend to one side.

  “It was only a hundred grand, dummy.” A petite college co-ed in a ponytail brushed foam off her super-tight jeans.

  Sam ignored his friends’ comments. “Yeah, I’m Sam Gunderson.” He gestured at the students behind him. “Don’t listen to these guys; they’re a bunch of idiots.” He wiped spattering of beer foam off his shirt.

  “I’m Paula Crenshaw.” When that didn’t ring a bell for him, she added, “From Paranormal Sciences?”

  His face lost some of its excitement. “Oh, yeah.” Paula had spoiled the moment. “Why don’t you come on in? I’ve got something for you.”

  She stepped past the small posse of students in the hall. Entering the tiny dorm room, she was surprised how much junk he and his roommates managed to squeeze into it. A carefully stacked pyramid of beer cans occupied one corner, a couple of desks sat back to back in the middle of one wall, and mounds of dirty—or possibly clean—clothes littered the floor.

  “Have a seat.” Sam pointed at his bed, the only space not covered in clothes, garbage, or both. He pulled off his beer-soaked shirt, pawed through a bureau drawer, and yanked on another t-shirt.

  Paula perched on the edge of the unmade bed, afraid of what she might sit on.

  “I have something for you.” Sam picked up a small metal garbage can. “I’m not going to be needing it after all.” He handed her his AIM device.

  Only an hour ago Sam had been freaked out that he might be kicked from the program. And now he was dumping the box in her lap?

  “I’m a little confused. I’m here to go over your journal entries with you. I’m not here for the box.” She attempted to hand the device back, but he stepped back.

  “I told you, I don’t need it anymore.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Look, I did the study for the five hundred bucks. I got into a little trouble playing poker a couple months’ back. Thought I could win back what I lost out of my grant money, if I just had enough of a base to draw from, you know?” He pulled out his desk chair and sat down. He grabbed a towel hanging on a bed frame and dried his hair.

  “And now you don’t need the money?” The comment from the hall repeated in her head. “Mr. Millionaire? Is that what you mean?”

  Sam gave a wry smile. “Not exactly a millionaire. I play the lottery. Not a lot, but every now and then. When I’m feeling lucky, you know?”

  She nodded, but she’d never played the lottery in her life. ‘Feeling lucky’ was a co
ncept she was unfamiliar with.

  “I had two dollars this morning when I was coming back from the poker game. Two dollars.” He tossed the towel onto the pile of laundry on the floor. “I kept one for dollar burrito night at the pub. The other one I used to buy a lottery ticket. Scratch-off. Stuck it in my pocket and didn’t pull it out until after you called me. And whamm-o,” he snapped his fingers, “a hundred thousand dollars. Just like that.” A huge grin took over his face.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. So you see, I don’t need the lousy five hundred bucks anymore. That’s chump change.”

  She let the AIM fall into her lap. What would she tell the professor? She had no more information on this anomaly than she did after interviewing Craig. “Can I at least go over your journal entries? It would really help us—”

  “Look, this dumb study was probably the most boring thing I’ve ever done. I mean, sit by this box with all your stuff unplugged? You know how much grief my roommates gave me for that? And the journal crap. Last night, I had the worst headache sitting in front of that damn thing. I could barely write two words. Just take the box and go.”

  But Paula wouldn’t give up so easily. “If we don’t figure out what happened, it’ll be impossible to—”

  Sam opened the door. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve got plans and most of them involve being as far away from this room as possible.”

  Paula, seeing the resolve on Sam’s face, knew she couldn’t do or say anything to change his mind. She headed out into the hallway. “If you change of heart, you can—”

  Sam shut the door before she could finish her sentence.

  Jerk.

  How much time would it have taken to look at the damn journal entries? It was one lousy page from last week. Friday wasn’t so long ago. She could have cleared it all up so easily with a few questions.

  The box under her arm was her only evidence now. Maybe Will could help her extract information from the data stick to find out what happened, or at least talk to his friend in Data Processing.

  She had to come up with something before she met with Prichard again. She couldn’t lose her position. She wouldn’t be able to pay her tuition without it.

  Chapter Seven

  Paula and Lark sat on the well-worn corduroy sofa, stuffed to the gills with egg rolls, fried rice, and Kung Pao Chicken. Half-empty take-out cartons and three empty beer bottles littered the dining room table behind them.

  Lark lazily swirled the beer inside her second bottle then took a sip. “Should we put the food away or leave it out?”

  “Out. Leave it out, most definitely,” Paula slurred. “You know we’re going to be hungry again before too long.” She drank the dregs from her third bottle and set it on the coffee table. The bottle threatened to tip, but Paula caught the neck and righted it.

  “Ugh, I’m not too sure about that.” Lark patted her concave middle. Paula wondered if her friend would disappear if she forgot to eat breakfast. “So how did your day go, anyway?”

  “Swimmingly. I had to talk to this crazy guy in the dorms, and then I couldn’t find Will to help me with some work I had to do.”

  “Crazy guy?”

  “He pulled himself out of the AIM study because he won the frickin’ lottery. Can you believe it?”

  “What a dumb fuck.” Lark twisted a strand of her dark hair between two fingers. “Isn’t that box supposed to read your mind or something?”

  “Not your mind, your aura.” Paula propped her feet on the coffee table and scrutinized the chipping polish on her toenails. The beer and friendly chit chat with her best friend seriously helped keep her mind off the worry over Dr. Pritchard and her failed assignment.

  “I could’ve used that on one of my clients at work today.” Lark stripped the label off her beer bottle, creating a little pile of paper bits next to Paula’s feet. “I could’ve avoided a lot of stupid shit and made Greg take him.”

  Yes, a good story from Lark would do the trick. She always had some nutty story from the tattoo shop where she worked. “What do you mean?” Paula stuffed her worries into the back of her mind and got ready to be entertained.

  Lark curled up into one corner of the couch, bringing a throw pillow with her. “This dude came in for his first tattoo and cried—the whole time.”

  Paula giggled.

  “His girlfriend was out in the waiting room, thinking her boyfriend was so fucking brave. What an idiot.” Her red-lipsticked mouth curved into a wide smile at the memory.

  “He didn’t have a problem crying in front of his girlfriend?”

  “I guess he thought a little thing like me would treat him more gently.”

  “Gentle, my ass.” Paula laughed, knowing how tough her petite friend could be when necessary. That quality allowed her best friend to make it intact into adulthood.

  “Too bad we don’t have one of those box things right now.”

  “What do you mean?” She’d chipped the bright pink polish off her big toe and moved to the next.

  “You could hook me up and see what kind of aura I’m having right now.” Lark sat up a little straighter, her curiosity clearly piqued. “Am I pissed off? Tired? Or just drunk?”

  “It doesn’t work like that.” Paula looked up from her feet and blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. “At least, I don’t think it does.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t ‘think it does’?” Lark punched the pillow in her lap. “Don’t you even know what the box does?”

  “It reads auras.”

  “Yeah, but how? What does it tell you?”

  “I don’t know.” Paula took her feet off the coffee table. “That was part of my problem today. I don’t know how to read the data on the thing.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m sure I have to have some program or something to pull the data off the stick.” Computers were not Paula’s thing.

  “Like one of those thumb drives?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. Could you bring one home from work sometime?” Lark leaned over, grabbed the Kung Pao Chicken container, and took a few bites. “We could play with it, see what it does.”

  “I have one in my car.” Paula said it without even thinking. She’d wanted to forget most of her miserable day.

  Lark swallowed. “You do?” Her eyes widened.

  “Yeah, but I need to take it back to the department tomorrow. It’s broken or something.”

  “Go get it.” Lark set down the container of food and slipped on her shoes.

  “No, I’m not going to get it.” Paula grabbed at her friend’s arm and missed. “We don’t even know how to use it.”

  “Well, geez, what kind of training do these college bozos get?”

  “They just plug it in and turn the switch on—”

  “So why don’t we do that?” Lark headed for the front door. “Then we can see what happens.”

  “I don’t think so—”

  “Oh, come on, Paula.” Lark hesitated in the entry, her hand on the knob. “What’s it going to hurt to fool around with it? If it’s broken, what harm can it do?”

  But what if it works?

  Deep down Paula wondered. A little voice in her head tempted her to give in to her friend, to see how the box worked. She hadn’t applied for the Paranormal Sciences master’s program for purely academic reasons. She’d left her personal reasons off of her application.

  Lark slipped outside.

  “Wait, Lark! Just be careful with it, okay?” Why not let her try it out? If Lark thought there was nothing to it, she’d get bored. Then, Paula could put it back in her car and return it to Pritchard. No harm. No foul.

  Lark held the AIM like it was a prize she’d won at a carnival. “This is such a cool little thing! Where should we put it?”

  Paula had to admit, her own curiosity was piqued. She’d been typing up journal entries for weeks, and this was the closest she’d ever gotten to finding out exactly what the box did. She drew from her limited
knowledge of how the box worked. “It has to be somewhere without a lot of stuff.” Paula cleared away a couple of Chinese food containers and carried them into the adjoining kitchen.

  “Stuff?” Lark trailed after her.

  She drew on the bits and pieces she’d read in the student agreement, plus what she’d picked up from Dr. Pritchard and Will. “No TVs or radios or anything.” Paula stepped on the pedal to open the trash can and dumped the containers in it. “Or we could unplug everything.”

  “How about the master bedroom?”

  The master bedroom. Her parents’ bedroom. There was an old clock radio in there, but nothing much else. Paula didn’t especially like going in there. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d stepped inside. Maybe two or three years ago, looking for some old picture her brother had asked for.

  But why should it bother her? It was only a room, after all.

  Lark headed down the hall with the AIM. “Let’s go. I want to see this thing in action.”

  Paula didn’t want to admit it, but she did too.

  ***

  Lark sat in front of an old vanity. The dusty mirror reflected her pale face and her colorless lips. The dark red lipstick that was her signature had worn off with her last bottle of beer. “Now what do we do?”

  Paula crouched down by the baseboards and searched for an outlet. A lone lamp lit the room with a dim, yellow light. “I’ll wait in the hall. We don’t want it picking up my aura, too.” She dragged a chair over and placed it in front of the vanity. “Once I’m gone, just flip that switch on the front.”

  Lark tilted the box to find the power switch. “Okay, I’m ready whenever you’re ready.” Her finger poised over the switch. “Should I be doing anything besides sitting here?”

  Paula drew from her shallow well of knowledge. “The subjects have to write in their journals while the box is turned on. Once the red light stops flashing, you can shut it off. That’s about all I know.”

  “Hmmm, maybe I should write something, then.”