Why did she have to choose this lesson? he thought.
Not like many of the others would have been much better.
The group of girls in the center squirmed as they stared at the pictures.
“Could I have also gotten these off Google?” Rand asked Garrett.
Garrett shrugged. “Maybe Photoshop? They are all pretty similar.”
“I guess I could have photoshopped them. Except I’m not great at technology. Also…”
Rand untucked his shirt and rolled it up. He turned around and exposed his back to the class. Some students leaned in. “I even have a little souvenir myself.”
That had been a painful and violent case. The triple scratch Rand had sustained had scarred. He would carry it for the rest of his life.
As he tucked his shirt back in, the woman in the back seemed appalled.
Maybe I shouldn’t be showing skin during an audit. But he always saved his scar for the lesson on the number three.
“Did it hurt?” someone asked.
“Like hell.”
“If this kind of stuff happens to you,” a girl asked as she raised her hand, “then why do you… keep doing it? Why don’t you stop getting involved?”
“Good question,” Rand said. “Until you experience it personally—and I pray you never do—you won’t understand how frightening it is. And if you ever do, God forbid, you’ll be desperate for someone to help you. That is why I do what I do. And I do it because no one else will.”
The class fell silent.
“Now,” he said, snapping the attention once again to the lesson at hand. “Three. What other tricky things do these bastards get up to? Let’s check it out.”
He clicked his remote again. Meanwhile, the woman at the back scribbled on her papers, a frown on her face.
2
His office was a cramped space that Rand was pretty sure had once been used for storage. He walked in and dropped his leather bag on the chair across from his desk, then let himself collapse heavily in the other chair behind his desk.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon and the bright sun shone through the single window. Or it would have, if it weren’t covered in white, cloudy smudge. Due to the structure of the old building, the window wasn’t easily accessible from the pathway that passed by it. Therefore, the cleaners tended to overlook it.
The office was cluttered with papers and books. The place had become his second home, even though there wasn’t enough space to keep up with the things that were accumulating. And there was no way he was in line for a bigger office. Not like the ones the department heads got. His class was the most looked down upon in the whole Religion department. He understood.
There was a knock on the door, and the auditor from earlier poked her head in. “Good afternoon, Mr. Casey. May I come in?”
Rand stifled a sigh. So I guess we really are going to do this on a Friday. He supposed it was too much to hope that it could wait until Monday. Without a word, he gestured toward the seat in front of his desk. When the woman found it occupied, Rand quickly removed his bag.
“My name is Doris Galloway,” she said, removing the glasses that were resting on the bridge of her nose. “I’m one of the university’s head auditors.”
“So your Frank, Susan, and Nelson’s boss?” Rand asked, his tone flat. Doris seemed taken aback by that. “They’ve all visited my class before.”
Doris cleared her throat. “Yes, I am their supervisor.”
“Got it.”
Rand leaned back in his chair. He was no stranger to the auditing process. But this time it seemed they had sent in the big guns to take him down.
People like Doris weren’t a problem if you taught freshman algebra, or economics. It was the art teachers, music teachers, and the paranormal studies instructors that were in constant danger of falling victim to budget cuts.
“I attended your class earlier,” Doris explained. She crossed her legs and opened her folder across her thighs. “Very interesting stuff. I took some notes and was hoping to find out more about you.”
My official credentials, my teaching experience. Rand had neither, and honestly was surprised his class at the university had been allowed to go on as long as it had. He could thank his friend, the Dean, for the job, since he owed Rand a major personal favor. But that had been years ago, and Rand had known it was just a matter of time before the good graces ran their course.
Doris put her glasses back on to keep reading the paperwork. “How long have you been employed at Louisiana State University, Mr. Casey?”
“Rand, please,” he said. He folded his hands together and rested them on the desk. “This is my seventeenth semester teaching here. I’ve found it to be a rewarding experience.”
She eyed him over the top of her lenses. “I see. And how many students would you say you have enrolled across all your sections?”
“Four hundred and seventy-eight,” he said. “Those are the ones who sign up. Some drop.”
“What is your drop rate?” she asked. “Actually, I can look that up to get an accurate—”
“Forty-one percent,” Rand said off the top of his head.
“Oh. I see.” Doris made a show of clicking her pen and writing the number down in the notes. “I’ll still verify it. Why do you think that is? Is your course difficult?”
“No, not at all,” Rand said. “It’s too frightening.”
Doris paused her writing. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s frightening,” Rand repeated. “The stuff I teach is real, and it scares the students. Some of them are very interested, and those are the ones I love to have in class. But there are others who can’t handle it. I understand.”
Doris pursed her lips as she seemed to gather her words. “I don’t think I’ve ever been told that a course is too frightening.”
“You made it through one lesson,” Rand said. “That’s better than the students who leave halfway through the first class.”
Doris gave a mirthless chuckle. “Perhaps I’m somewhat of a skeptic.”
Now she had pushed his button. Dancing around the auditing formalities was one thing, but this was another. “These kids need to know what’s out there. Math and economics are part of the real world, sure, but the stuff I teach is just as real, and can be very dangerous for anyone unaware.”
Doris stared at him as if he were a crazy person. Good. He was used to that, but he wasn’t wrong. The spirits did not discern between age, race, or sex. Doris Galloway, university auditor, was susceptible to their terror, same as the rest. They did not care if she considered herself a “skeptic.”
“I see…” She clicked her pen, but when she brought the tip to the paper, it appeared she could not think of anything to write.
A knock on the door interrupted them.
There stood a young girl, one that Rand recognized from the last section of his class. Stacy Thompson, his front-row fan.
“Hi,” she said, hesitating in the hallway. “Am I intruding?”
Doris said, “No, dear. Please, come in. These are Mr. Casey’s office hours and I am the one who is interrupting. This is your time to speak to your instructor if you need to.”
“Oh,” the girl said. “Okay. Then…”
Doris vacated her chair and motioned for the girl to sit. She did and moved a piece of blonde hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear.
“My name is—”
“Stacy Thompson,” Rand finished for her. “Section three on Friday afternoons. You currently have an A.”
Stacy sat up straight. “Oh. Yeah.” She smiled. Even Doris smirked at his memory.
“What can I do for you?” Rand asked.
“I was wondering… for the final exam, is it going to be cumulative?”
The final? They had not even reached midterms yet.
But that was Stacy. Although he hadn’t been teaching for long, he knew the type. Always planning ahead, wanting nothing to threaten her 4.0. He wondered if an A in Para
normal Studies would help someone’s transcripts, or just make eyebrows raise.
“Cumulative?” Rand asked.
“Yeah,” Stacy said. “Is it going to cover everything we’ve learned all semester, or is it just the last test? Meaning it only covers material since the test before it.”
“Ah, right,” Rand said. “Not cumulative. It’s just a final test. And it will not be weighted any more than the others.”
Doris frowned at that little detail. Other professors in the Religious Studies department always weighted their final exams.
But Rand had always hated weighted and cumulative finals when he was in school. Therefore, in his class—where he was in charge—they were off the table.
“Right. Okay, thank you.”
“Is that everything?” Rand asked.
“Yes, Mr. Casey.”
She got up and left, casting Doris Galloway a short glance as she went.
Doris resumed her place in the seat across from Rand. “How many students would you say show up to your office hours, Mr. Casey?” she asked, ignoring his request for her to call him by his first name.
“Hmm.” Rand wondered if this was a trick question. None of the other auditors had asked him that before. More students coming by could mean they had more questions and concerns about the way he was teaching or grading, which meant more issues. On the other hand, fewer people showing up possibly indicated disinterest. “I have a few trickling in every now and then.” Rand shrugged and gave her his best charming smile.
She was unamused. She returned the glasses to her nose and wrote in her papers.
Rand sat across from her in silence for a long time and let her work. He tried to peek at what she was scribbling, but he couldn’t read any of her messy scrawl upside down.
Then, Rand noticed another presence outside his office.
One that looked out of a place.
It was a man alongside a woman, presumably husband and wife. They were both middle aged, and most likely not students at the university.
And Rand recognized the looks on their faces—knew them too well. Desperation, terror, and uncertainty.
These people needed his help.
“Good afternoon,” Rand said, standing, the audit forgotten. Doris looked up from her work and twisted in her chair to see who had intruded this time.
“Hi,” the man said, stepping forward into the office, but only one step. His wife lingered behind him. “We are looking for a Mr. Randolph Casey.”
“You’ve found him,” Rand said with a smile. “What can I do you for?”
3
Their nervous demeanor did not change, and Rand felt the smile fade from his face. He saw the urgency in their facial expressions, the tension they held inside.
Doris Galloway, on the other hand, sensed no such thing. “Are you students of Mr. Casey’s? Here for his office hours?”
“Oh. No, ma’am,” the man said. “But we called ahead and asked when he would be in the office. We were told he would be free during this time.”
“He normally is,” Doris said, “but if you’re not students, then I must ask you to please wait a few minutes. We are having a meeting.”
“Oh.” He smiled pleasantly, almost masking the pain behind his eyes. “I’m sorry. We’ll wait as long as we have to.”
“Actually, Doris, I would like to speak with them now.” Doris cast him a puzzled look. “Feel free to stay, though.”
Doris, not used to being sidelined, eventually rose and took her place on the far side of the office, where she had stood when Stacy had asked about the midterms.
“Please,” Rand said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. There was only room for one, so the man told his wife to sit, which she did. He stood behind her with a hand on her shoulder.
“My name is Nick Collins.” He extended his hand and Rand shook it firmly. “This is my wife, Maria.” Rand shook her hand, too.
They were a good-looking couple. Nick was tall and had a firm jaw. His face was barely wrinkled with his age, and the hair on the side of his temples was grey. The rest was brown, and the difference was very stark. Maria looked younger than him, with blonde hair cut short to her shoulders. Her eyes were clear blue, and she wore meticulously applied lipstick on her thin lips. She sat with a straight posture and an air of strength and confidence, but the look of despair on her face ruined her guise. At least to Rand.
“Randolph Casey,” Rand said. “But please, call me Rand.”
Since Nick was standing, Rand remained standing as well.
Nick’s hand brushed the back of his head, rustling his hair. “We uh… we came because…” He and Maria glanced at each other. “We have a problem.”
“Sure,” Rand said, trying to keep the tone upbeat.
“Well… I don’t know how to explain this,” Nick said.
“You don’t have to worry about sounding silly,” Rand said. “Not in this office. Just tell me straight what’s going on, and how I can help.”
The tension went out of Maria’s shoulders, and she slumped forward. That was a common problem when people came to see him—they thought they were crazy for having the issues they were having.
“We have a daughter,” Maria said. “Her name is Georgia. She is hospitalized at St. Mary’s Medical Center because she has cystic fibrosis. Are you familiar with the condition?”
“I can’t say I am.”
“Basically,” Nick said, “it causes her body to produce too much mucus in her lungs. There’s no cure, and she’s spent about a third of her life in the hospital for her surgeries.”
“I have a picture,” Maria said, diving into her purse. She produced a single photograph, which she handed to Rand, the smile of a proud mother on her face for the first time since she’d come into the office.
One glance told Rand everything. Georgia Collins was a lively and vibrant girl. Even in a photograph, her energy radiated out, her smile reaching her blue eyes completely. An oxygen cannula was in her nostrils and the tubes were tucked behind her ears.
“She’s beautiful,” Rand said. “How old is she?”
“Fifteen.”
That hit Rand in the gut. Only a year younger than his own daughter.
“Looks just like her mother.”
Maria’s smile widened, but then it dropped as quickly as it came.
“Georgia had a friend,” Nick said. “A boy she met at the hospital named Thomas, who was also a CF kid. That’s what they call themselves. Anyway, about three months ago, Thomas’s health worsened, and he fell into a coma. He died a few days after that.”
“Oh,” Rand said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah. He was a good kid, and only sixteen. They say people with cystic fibrosis can have a life expectancy up to their thirties, but sometimes things happen.”
“I understand,” Rand said.
In the corner, Doris Galloway focused on the couple, her papers forgotten. Rand even thought he could see tears shimmer in the corners of her eyes.
“Georgia’s a little trooper,” Maria said. “She’s almost always positive and happy, and just an amazing young lady all around. But ever since Thomas passed away, she’s been in a funk.”
“She lost a friend,” Rand said. “Perhaps she’s considering the same could happen to her.”
“Believe it or not,” Nick said, “Georgia talks to us often about dying. She says she isn’t afraid, that every day is a blessing, and when her time comes she knows she will have lived her best life.”
“That’s inspiring,” Rand said.
“It is.” Nick couldn’t help but smile. “So Georgia is not afraid to die.”
“She sounds like a remarkable young woman,” Rand said. “So… what is it that brings you here today?”
Nick and Maria exchanged a glance. Then Nick spoke. “She told us that Thomas’s ghost comes to visit her at night.”
Now Rand understood where he fit in.
Doris Galloway’s brow furrowed. The sad s
tory had—for her—taken an unusual turn.
“Okay,” Rand said.
Nick and Maria seemed surprised at Rand’s nonjudgmental answer.
“There are child psychologists and sociologists on staff at the hospital at all times,” Maria said. “And we’ve talked to them a lot about these claims Georgia is making. About talking to and seeing and hanging out with Thomas’s ghost at night. The doctors are saying it’s her way of grieving. She misses her friend and likes the idea that, even after she passes, she’ll still be able to live on.”
“Right,” Rand said, although his first instinct was always to mistrust the opinion of psychologists and sociologists in scenarios like this. Very smart people, to be sure, but they viewed things too clinically. Too black and white.
Sometimes a more open-minded approach was needed.
“We want our daughter to have the freedom to deal with her situation in any way she needs to,” Nick said. “Especially in her condition, where we never know what the next day could bring.”
Just like what happened to Thomas, Rand thought.
Maria wiped away the tears that suddenly fell from her eyes. Rand grabbed a nearby box of tissues and offered them to her, which she accepted.
“But usually she’s so practical and down to earth,” Nick said. “This thing with the ghost, though…”
“Do you believe in life after death, Mr. Collins?” Rand asked.
Nick took a few minutes to ponder it. “You know, I never used to. But since we’ve almost lost Georgia so many times… I have to say it is a very comforting thought.”
“Do you think it’s possible for Thomas to have visited Georgia from the other side? Do you believe Georgia when she tells you these things?”
“At first, I wasn’t sure,” Nick said. He rubbed at his chest as he gathered his words. “But ever since, some odd things have been happening.”
“Like what?” Rand asked.
“Tell him about the food,” Maria said.
“Yeah,” Nick said. “One day, the dietary service workers brought around chicken for lunch. Georgia told us not to eat it because Thomas had warned her not to the night before. Maria and I rarely eat the hospital food anyway, but that evening a lot of the kids in the ward got upset stomachs.”
The Tenth Ward Page 2