Teenage Psychic on Campus

by Pamela Woods-Jackson

  Caryn tapped her foot impatiently. “Psychic medium yes, as in I see spirits. I’ll leave the undead to you.”

  “Who was it?” Annabeth asked him, a little too eagerly.

  Gary rolled his eyes. “Dead college professor. If he’s still hanging around here fifty years later, he must have an agenda.”

  “Just seeing to it that students remain on task.” The ghost grinned, took a puff of his pipe, doffed his hat and vanished into the ether.

  Annabeth grabbed Gary’s arm. “Walk me to class and you can give me all the details,” she said as she dragged him out.

  Gary caught a last glimpse of Caryn with an amused look on her face. He hadn’t found any of this the least bit funny.

  Chapter 5

  Sean had left the TV on in their room when he went to class. Gary didn’t bother switching it off, but he was only half-listening to the TV weather report while trying to memorize his lines for Pride and Prejudice. He looked up from his script to see the meteorologist waving his arms all over the Indiana map, talking about snow and freezing temperatures.

  “That’s right, folks, we’re about to get hit with a possible record-breaking snowfall. We rarely get measurable snow this early in the season. The last time was in October of 1995 and we got less than three inches, but brace yourselves, because this storm’s looking like six to eight inches.”

  Gary muted the TV. No wonder it’s been so cold. Then he wondered about the Ghost Stalkers and if their trip to the farmhouse was still on for Halloween night. He hadn’t heard, but the up side of the incoming bad weather was that it might force them to cancel. Gary wouldn’t be upset about that at all.

  Sean burst into their dorm room rubbing his hands together. “Crazy cold out there!”

  Gary glanced up and raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t your dad, the pediatrician, ever tell you to wear a coat in winter?”

  “It’s not winter,” Seat shot back.

  “Okay, record-setting fall cold snap. Why are you going around campus in that thin leather jacket?”

  “What are you, my mother?” Sean took the jacket off and hung it neatly in his closet. “It’s all about fashion, man.” He glanced at Gary who was shaking his head. “Yeah, okay, my winter coat’s packed in a box in the dorm’s basement and I haven’t had time to get down there and dig it out. Who knew I’d need it in October?”

  “They say a snowstorm’s coming.” Gary pointed his highlighter at the soundless TV before returning his attention to his script. “Hey, as long as you’re here, wanna help me run lines?”

  “Not especially.” Sean flopped down on his bed, clasped his hands behind his head on the pillow, and watched the weatherman silently pointing out local weather alerts on the map. There was a crawler across the bottom of the screen announcing school and business closures and driving advisories. “I’ve got an Econ paper due Friday, and the professor wants hard copies, which means a long walk to the printing lab in the library. If it snows, he might—”

  “Don’t count on it,” Gary said.

  Sean harrumphed and continued to watch the weathercast. “Hey, wait.” He sat bolt upright, took the remote from the nightstand and upped the volume. “Remember that kid that went missing, Eddie Carson? Still hasn’t turned up.”

  Gary glanced up and then shrugged. “Oh. Too bad.”

  “Yeah, and they’re running another interview with his stepdad.” Sean listened intently as the reporter interviewed Clyde Seville about his stepson’s disappearance and the ensuing search efforts, cut to a sound bite with the classmate who last saw Eddie before he got into the pickup, and then back to the anchor desk. “Doesn’t look good,” Sean said.

  “Why do you care? It’s not like you know the kid.”

  “It’s creepy. Years of listening to my father talk about kids whose parents…” Sean shuddered. “Well, I just hate to think of a little boy out there in the cold, all alone and lost. Or worse.”

  Gary nodded. His father wasn’t in his life, but he was lucky he’d had such a devoted mother. This kid’s mom seemed to be MIA. “You’re right about the dad,” Gary said. “He seems shady, like he’s all about the publicity.” But he couldn’t worry about a situation he knew nothing about and couldn’t control anyway, so he put the highlighter to use marking up his lines. “Who knew Bingley would have so many scenes?” he muttered.

  The newscast went on to the sports report, so Sean turned the TV off and rolled over on his side to face Gary. “Have you heard from Barry or Scott?”

  “Who’s Scott?”

  “Scott Tildren,” Sean said. “Ghost Stalkers Club faculty advisor, and head baseball coach of our Division AA championship Tigers.”

  Gary shook his head and kept on highlighting lines.

  “Are you sure? Check your email.”

  Gary groaned, laid his script aside and booted up his laptop. “Yeah, there’s a message,” he said through gritted teeth. He read it silently and then turned the computer around so Sean could see.

  —Possible postponement due to inclement weather. But we’re still going ahead with our meeting October 30, 7 p.m. in Room A, third floor of the Student Union. Plan to attend.—Barry Lansing—

  “Whoohoo!” Sean shouted with a fist pump to the air. “It’s on!”

  “Did you not see the part about the postponement?”

  “Possible postponement. This is Indiana, dude.” Sean threw a pillow at Gary. “The weather changes hourly. And if it does turn bad, we can always reschedule. Ghosts haunt year-round.” Sean watched as Gary nonchalantly closed his laptop and went back to studying his script. “Why aren’t you more excited?”

  Frustrated, Gary threw Sean’s pillow back at him, hard, knocking Sean a little off-balance. Did his best friend not know him any better than that? Ghosts haunted his every waking moment, or at least it felt that way sometimes, so why would he voluntarily go looking for them? “This ghost stalking club is your thing, not mine.”

  Undeterred, Sean took his phone off his desk and fired off a text. In response to Gary’s unasked question he said, “Annabeth. She’s going not only as a club member but also as the school’s newspaper photographer. I want to make sure she knows the meeting’s still on.”

  “Just Annabeth?” Gary asked. “Not that crazy roommate of hers?” Gary felt an unfamiliar churning in his stomach. Was he hungry? No, he’d eaten dinner. Was he nervous about the play? Hardly, since Austen wasn’t his idea of great theatre. He couldn’t put a label on what he was feeling and he didn’t have time anyway, because he needed to focus on more important things. He picked up his book bag and stuffed his script in it, zipped up the pocket and tossed it over one shoulder. Before Sean could open his mouth, Gary said, “Library. I need some peace and quiet to learn these lines.”

  Sean laughed out loud. “Peace and quiet at the library? Didn’t you say that’s one of the most haunted places on campus?”

  Gary slammed the door on his way out.

  ****

  Annabeth told me about the Ghost Stalkers Club planning meeting. She was all excited about both the club and this ghost hunt, and wanted me to join the club, too. I had no intention of joining, but since Del officially assigned me the story I needed to go to the meeting, which was being held in the Student Union. Room A was originally the school library, back in the day when Hamilton Liberal Arts only had a handful of students and all the classes met in one building.

  I didn’t want to make a big deal out of being there as a reporter, so I decided that if anyone asked, I’d say I was attending as Annabeth’s friend. I had it all planned out: write a blow-by-blow description of the actual ghost-hunt itself, possibly interviewing club members on the spot like those “in the minute” segments on reality TV, and then afterwards do a well-written follow-up piece on the findings. If it turned out as I hoped, my story would get noticed outside of Belford, Indiana.

  I arrived at the Student Union fifteen minutes early, which gave me a little time to look around. The dark oak-paneled walls around the
room were lined with what were once glass-enclosed book shelves, now filled with a few old books and trophies. The whole atmosphere was very stately and dignified. I took a seat near the back of the room where I hoped to jot down some notes before the fun started.

  The room was set up as if a guest speaker was coming, with institutional high-backed, armless cushioned chairs facing a podium with a microphone. People were arriving, taking seats and chatting, while others walked in, eyes glued to their phones. It soon became apparent that there weren’t enough chairs, because close to fifty people had flowed into the room. Some of them were computer nerds I’d seen on campus who operated the technical equipment the club takes on all their stalks. But there were far more girls here than techie guys. I psychically picked up that some of those starry-eyed girls were less interested in ghosts and more into Barry Lansing.

  And then in walked Barry himself, a senior and the club’s president. He was something of a local celebrity, not only on campus but in Belford. Barry formed his Ghost Stalkers Club last year, initially starting with just a few close friends and some electronic video equipment, and with each well-publicized success it quickly grew to be one of the largest and most popular clubs on campus. Last summer Barry led a group that debunked some supposed hauntings at a history museum, and on their next hunt discovered what he claimed was evidence of paranormal activity at the county courthouse. I’d seen him swaggering around campus, but I had to admit he had charismatic good-looks. He was perpetually unshaven, sporting sophisticated glasses and always wearing his signature Ralph Lauren sweaters. As he sauntered into the room, doting eyes followed his every move, and he benevolently nodded greetings to his admirers.

  Coach Scott Tildren, whom I recognized from his pictures in Alex’s sports section, walked in right behind Barry, definitely overshadowed by the younger guy. He looked exactly as you’d expect a coach and former athlete to look—stocky, bald with a mustache encircling his chin and lip, one pierced ear, wearing jeans and a form-fitting fleece with the embossed HLAC logo. Coach had an elderly woman on his arm, whom he helped into a seat on the front row.

  Every chair in the room was taken, with the exception of the front row that no one seemed willing to sit in. Some members gave up trying to find a seat and stood against the back wall, while a group of giggly freshmen girls sat on the floor as close to Barry as they could get.

  I wondered what was keeping Sean and Annabeth. She’d been so insistent that I come tonight and yet she wasn’t here. I sent her a quick text and a moment later she replied.

  —Sorry. Went to Tony’s Pizza and lost track of time. On our way.—

  Great. I was stuck here by myself.

  Barry Lansing stepped to the podium, tapped the mic with his finger, and spoke into it. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention.” That effectively stopped the chitchat, as all adoring eyes were trained on him. “We have a very special guest this evening.” He indicated the woman seated next to Coach Tildren. “This is our homeowner, Ms. Pelson.”

  “Please, call me Clara,” she said. She was probably in her fifties, plump with mostly gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wearing khaki pants with an oversized purple turtleneck sweater.

  Barry scouted out the room. “Now all we need are Sean Paxton and that medium he promised us,” he muttered, which was unfortunately picked up by the microphone.

  Medium? I cringed and sank down in my seat at the back of the room. Did he know I’d be here? Or maybe he was referring to Gary. But Gary’s not a medium, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why they needed him anyway, since the Ghost Stalkers have all that EVP equipment. I shook my head, ready to be done with all this and get down to the business of writing the story.

  Sean and Annabeth walked in, finally, hand-in-hand, just in time for Sean to respond to Barry’s blurt. “Gary will be here, don’t worry!”

  “Pssst, Annabeth,” I whispered as they sailed right past me.

  Her eyes darted around until she caught sight of me. She grabbed my arm, pulling me out of my seat, and we followed Sean to the empty chairs at the front of the room, next to Clara Pelson and Scott Tildren.

  I glanced up at the institution clock on the wall. 7:15. Despite Sean’s assurances, whatever Gary called himself—medium or ghost whisperer—he was late.

  Barry cleared his throat and didn’t look too happy. “Well, folks, maybe we’d better get on with club business.”

  I tuned him out when he asked the recording secretary to read the minutes from the previous meeting, which had been held prior to their last ghost hunt at an old bar on Main Street. “Yes, folks,” Barry said, “we have electronic evidence of a haunting in that old place.”

  Ten minutes later Gary appeared in the doorway, looking as unsure of himself as I felt.

  Barry held up his hand to stop the reading of the minutes. When Scott spotted Gary, he got up and walked across the room to shake his hand. “You must be Gary Riddell. Scott Tildren.” Scott indicated Gary should follow him to the front row.

  “’Bout time, dude,” Sean said.

  “Play rehearsal, dude,” Gary shot back as he sat down where Scott indicated, on the other side of Sean.

  “I’m Barry Lansing.” He shook hands with Gary. “And this is Clara Pelson, the owner of the haunted farmhouse.” Turning to Clara he said, “Gary Riddell, our psychic.”

  I gasped loudly, which turned heads my way. I immediately faked a coughing fit.

  “Uh, I hate to burst your bubble,” Gary said, “but I’m no psychic.”

  “You can say that again,” I muttered under my breath.

  Scott waved away Gary’s comment. “Medium. Barry meant medium.”

  Gary shook his head. “Maybe you guys have the wrong idea about me. I’m not a medium either.”

  Barry seemed a little put out. “But you can see them, right? Ghosts, spirits, whatever?”

  “Oh, yeah, I see ghosts,” Gary said as Barry visibly relaxed. “See them, talk to them, but they have to come find me. I don’t conjure them up like a medium can.”

  I don’t ‘conjure them up’ either, I thought. I open my energy and wait to see who arrives from The Other Side. I sighed as I glanced around the room at the puzzled crowd of ghost-stalking, EVP-loving camp followers.

  Annabeth stood up and said to Barry, “If you’re looking for a psychic and a medium, I’ve got the real deal for you!”

  Uh-oh. Annabeth hooked her arm in mine and stood up, forcing me to stand up with her. I felt like a high school sophomore all over again, being outted by a big-mouthed friend.

  “Who’s this?” Barry asked. “We don’t allow nonmembers at our meetings.”

  “This is my friend and roommate, and fellow Herald reporter, Caryn Alderson.”

  “We didn’t invite reporters, either,” Barry growled.

  Sydney Marshall stood up from the middle of the audience and waved her arms to get everyone’s attention. “Hey, guys, remember that brouhaha a few years back? Some kids at Rosslyn High School in Indianapolis staged a walkout in protest of school uniforms. Remember Caryn proving she was psychic on TV? Well, here she is in person!”

  A few club members nodded, while others whispered and eyed me suspiciously. I tossed Annabeth a seriously dirty look and was about to bolt out the door when Barry approached me, all smiles and seemingly good humor. He was a better actor than Gary Riddell ever thought about being. “Any friend of Annabeth Walton’s is welcome here. Are you planning to join our ghost hunt?”

  Standing this close to Barry Lansing, I got a little weak in the knees, and for a moment I was as star-struck as those other groupies. “Um, well…” I took a step back, hoping for some perspective.

  “Of course she’s joining us. She’s amazing,” Annabeth gushed.

  Gary stood up and tossed his bag over his shoulder. “Well, then you don’t need me.” He turned and started for the door.

  Ohmigod. He’s leaving and it’s my fault, and they really do need him. “Actually, I�
�” I cleared my throat, and tried again. “I can’t see earthbound ghosts.”

  Barry turned to me in surprise. “Wait. What?”

  I lowered my voice. “Yes, I know things about the future, and yes, I can see and talk to spirits who have crossed over. But not ghosts. For that you need him,” I said, jerking my thumb at Gary’s retreating back.

  Gary groaned. “Great. Just great.” He was standing in the room’s doorway, already halfway out.

  “Gary, don’t go,” Scott said, hurrying over and putting a hand on Gary’s shoulder. “Is Caryn right?”

  Gary shrugged. “Yeah, I can talk to dead people.” He locked eyes with me. “She gets to see happy, crossed-over spirits. All I see are anxiety-ridden earthbounds with unfinished business.”

  “So then we need you both. Two heads are better than one,” Scott said, “since it seems you bring different things to the table.”

  Quite the diplomat, I thought. Yet somewhere inside, my sixth sense told me I could trust Scott. Barry I wasn’t sure about, despite his good looks, but Scott Tildren seemed like a genuinely kind and caring man.

  “So what we need from you during the hunt, Gary,” Scott continued, “is to tell us if you see ghosts in the farmhouse, and describe them for the camera crew when the time comes. Naturally we’ll have our equipment for verification. And Caryn,” he said, turning to give me more unwanted attention, “perhaps you could take a different part of the farmhouse and give us any psychic impressions you get. That way we cover more territory. Agreed?”

  Gary and I exchanged glances. Gary nodded. I went along with it, too, knowing this was really unprofessional. Journalistically unprofessional, that is. No reporter with any integrity allows herself to become part of the story, yet here I was, inserting myself into it.

  “If that’s all settled,” Barry said, turning and giving Clara his full attention, “please tell us about your farmhouse and what you’ve been experiencing.” He motioned for her to come to the podium and speak into the microphone.