The Little Black Box

by K. J. Gillenwater

  It would have been nice if someone had answered the phone when she tried to call earlier. Guess phone calls at this time of morning weren’t expected or appreciated. With any luck the subject would be home and didn’t mind having a surprise visitor.

  A scruffy-looking frat boy wearing only stained sweatpants, Teva sandals, and the worst case of bed head Paula had ever seen opened the door. He held a large Tupperware container filled to the brim with Lucky Charms. “Yeah?” he grumbled, clearly unhappy about the interruption of his breakfast routine for an unknown woman with an armload of papers and a conservatively-cut blouse.

  “Um, I’m looking for Craig Peters?”

  He called upstairs, “Peters! Someone at the door for you.” He disappeared down a back hall and left Paula standing on the cramped front porch.

  Chivalrous, the boys of Omega Omicron were not.

  She gripped the thick pile of papers closer to her chest. The wind gusted. It would be just her luck to lose her grip on them and end up with transcribed journal entries flying everywhere.

  But better to be here than in her office. A chance to get out in the sunshine and interact with human beings besides Will was probably good for her. If she completed this new assignment with alacrity, perhaps Professor Pritchard would find reason to assign her similar work in the future. Anything to prove her worth beyond being able to type seventy-five words per minute would be a good idea at this point.

  “You’re looking for me?” A stocky, muscular guy wearing jeans and a polo shirt with still-damp-from-the-shower hair approached the doorway.

  “Are you Craig Peters?”

  “Yeah.” He put his hands in his pockets. A crease of worry marred his brow.

  “I’m from the Paranormal Sciences Department, and I’m here to discuss some discrepancies in your journal entries. Dr. Pritchard was quite concerned with—”

  “You mean that idiotic black box thing?”

  “The AIM Project,” she interjected. The official name of the box was the Aural Imprint Measuring device, or AIM.

  “Whatever. That thing gave me one hell of a headache. You can take the box right now for all I care. I want out.”

  This must be the anonymous caller who left a message on her voicemail. “A headache shouldn’t affect any of the results,” she countered, as if speaking with some authority on the topic. She would do almost anything to make sure Dr. Pritchard got the information he needed. “Besides, I was instructed to review the journal entries with you and see where you keep the box when it’s activated.”

  “Look, I signed up for the study to get some money together for a rock climbing trip I’m taking over Thanksgiving weekend.” Craig set his jaw. “But I’m not interested in being some kind of medical experiment. Just take the damn box and get out of my hair.”

  Her doubt grew. How could she convince him to cooperate with her? He couldn’t care less about the study. But Professor Pritchard did, and if her boss wanted answers, she wouldn’t leave until she got some.

  She stood, unwavering.

  Craig sighed. “I have class in forty-five minutes—”

  “It will only take a few minutes, I promise.”

  His resolve crumbled. “Okay, okay, but I have to be out of here in a half-hour or I’ll be late for class.”

  The professor would be pleased. “First, show me where you keep the device.”

  ***

  The basement stunk of stale beer and marijuana smoke. Paula gagged at the foul combination of odors, which reinforced her decision to steer clear of the sororities as an undergrad.

  Craig led her around empty party cups and piles of beer-soaked streamers, which littered the cement floor. Paula’s low-heeled shoes stuck with every step. Now she could understand why the first frat boy she’d encountered wore Tevas. Who would want to ruin a perfectly good pair of shoes walking around this place? Yuck.

  “It’s back here. In the storage closet.” Craig pointed to a dark corner with a padlocked door. “Best I could do with all the guys in the house. The only place no one goes but me. And maybe a few rats.” He smirked at her, and she shuddered.

  She wouldn’t be surprised to find more than rats living down here.

  Craig unlocked the padlock. The door fell open. He held it so that Paula could pass through first.

  What a gentleman.

  For once she would have preferred the man cross over the threshold before her.

  “There’s a light bulb overhead.” He made no move to join her in the black and claustrophobic space.

  She stepped into the darkness, feeling for a string or chain above her head. She imagined all the bugs and spiders that enjoyed holing up there.

  Her fingers brushed something cold and metal. She pulled it. The bare bulb lit up the small space with a harsh light. Relief flooded through her. Sharp shadows danced on the wall as the bulb swung from side to side.

  “There’s where I keep the box.” He pointed to an old-fashioned elementary school desk in one corner. A blue notebook with a pen jammed in the wire spiral sat next to a black plastic cube.

  For the first time since she’d joined as a member of this project, Paula observed the AIM device up close—or ‘the little black box.’

  What a fitting description.

  It was perfectly square, as big as a toaster, and smooth on all sides. At first glance, it resembled a doorstop. On closer inspection she noticed the power cord in back, a slot with a memory stick protruding from it, and a flat, red light, like a miniature brake light, on top.

  “See?” Craig stopped the bulb from swinging. “Besides the light, there’s nothing else in this room. Just like the instructions said. ‘No electronic devices within five feet’.”

  He made a good case for himself. The bulb was a low wattage one, and it hung a good seven feet from the desk—well beyond the five-foot distance range required. Not knowing which details were important, she wrote on the front of the manila folder, ‘basement room, one light bulb, desk, chair.’ If the professor asked for more information, it wouldn’t be hard to remember this place.

  “All right. This looks fine.” Onto the next portion of her assignment. “We’re going to need to go over several entries from your journal.”

  Craig looked at his watch. “You’ve got me for twenty minutes, and then I have to fly.” He unplugged the black box and wrapped the cord around it. “Here, take this. I don’t want it anymore.”

  With a flourish, he dumped the box on top of her paper stack.

  Paula’s arms sagged under the additional weight. It was heavier than it appeared. “But I don’t need this. I’m just here to talk to you about—”

  “I told you, I want out.”

  Professor Pritchard would not be happy with her. “I suppose I could turn it in for you.” Her assignment had been to figure out the discrepancies in his journal entries, not help him get rid of the device.

  “Whatever. Just get it out of here.” He rubbed at his forehead.

  “Okay,” Paula adjusted her arms to the new heft and looked past him into the basement. “Is there somewhere we can sit down?” A long bar lined the opposite end of the room, and a couple of folding chairs sat in one corner. The stench, however, was unbearable. No way would she stay down here any longer than necessary.

  “Upstairs?” Craig didn’t seem to want to stay in the basement any longer either.

  How did they lure sorority girls down here?

  “That will be fine.” She clutched the papers and the black box, worrying everything might fall on the sticky floor. Bringing back the transcribed entries with beer all over them and a broken box to boot, wouldn’t Dr. Pritchard love that?

  She hoped upstairs was a little more sanitary and a lot less smelly.

  ***

  “All right, and what about this entry?” Their twenty-minute time window rapidly drew to a close, and she’d made no progress finding mistakes in Craig’s journal.

  “You can check my schedule.” Irritation filled his voice. “I
have Statistics on Fridays at 10, German at 11:40, and International Relations at 2.”

  “So on Friday you only attended class and returned to the house? No trips off campus? No wild parties or anything?”

  “So that’s all you think we do here?” He gestured at the living room around them. A dozen framed composite pictures hung on the walls keeping guard over the sagging couches and threadbare carpeting.

  Paula looked pointedly at a beer bong sitting on the coffee table in front of them.

  Craig sighed and rolled his eyes. “Okay, we do have our fun, but not every weekend. I’m a senior. It’s my fifth year here, and I need to graduate. If I don’t, my parents will pull my tuition. Yeah, there’s a few guys who party pretty hard, but I’m not one of them.”

  “You’re absolutely sure you didn’t leave anything out of your journal entries?”

  “No, there’s nothing else. God, what can I say to make you believe me? Look, I want to be done with this stupid thing.”

  “There were lots of students who wanted to participate in this study.”

  “I know, but I’ll bet most of them don’t know what you guys are up to.” His gaze focused on the box, which sat on the coffee table. “Screwing with our heads—I should report you to the dean.”

  She recalled the first week of work, typing up emails to inform the participants they’d been selected for the project.

  You have been chosen!

  Professor Pritchard insisted the tone of the email read as if God were selecting Moses to pick up the Ten Commandments.

  You are participant Number 22 in the AIM Project. Please attend our orientation meeting on September 23rd in the third floor lounge of the Paranormal Sciences building.

  And this dummy wanted out. He must be nuts. How could that innocuous looking piece of plastic interfere with his brain? Either he was delusional, or he’d drunk one too many beers.

  With the interview winding down, she got ready to leave. She had the information she needed. Why stick around and listen to Peters complain?

  “Thanks for your time.” She ripped a piece of paper from her date book and scribbled her cell number on it. “If you think of anything else, just give me a ring.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I’m late! I need to dash—”

  “Go on.” Paula handed him the scrap of paper. “I can show myself out.”

  Craig didn’t hesitate for a second. He snatched the paper from her hand and zipped out of the living room as if the place were on fire. He didn’t even thank her for taking the box off of his hands.

  Paula sat on the couch, thinking. Her eyes lit upon the black box.

  How would she divulge to the professor that one of his hand-picked subjects dropped from the study? She couldn’t sugar-coat that bit of news.

  Paula scooped up the box, dreading Pritchard’s reaction when she brought it to the meeting.

  Chapter Four

  Paula set the black box in her trunk and snapped the lid shut. She looked at her watch. Eleven o’clock. No wonder her stomach growled. Since getting up this morning, she’d only drunk a couple of cups of coffee. She sighed. Guess she’d have to grab something to eat out of the machines on the second floor.

  No time to stop for food when piles of journals waited on her desk.

  Monday mornings Dr. Pritchard’s middle-aged secretary, Minerva Caldwell, dropped off the journals well before Paula had finished her first cup of coffee at home. That woman was a machine—first to arrive, last to leave, loyal to a fault. She’d probably sacrifice her grandchildren if Dr. Pritchard asked her to. In fact, her voice went all a-twitter when the professor stopped by her desk for his messages. Just like a schoolgirl.

  Most attractive, unmarried professors probably would have traded in Minerva for a younger model, but he kept her on. Guess he had enough distractions at work without adding a pretty secretary into the mix, or maybe she was actually good at her job.

  She might be all smiles for the professor, but whenever Ms. Caldwell passed by Paula’s office, her sallow face twisted into a frown. Ms. Caldwell never seemed to have a kind word for anyone but Pritchard.

  Paula entered her office with a package of peanut butter crackers and a diet soda. The stack of notebooks sat on her desk like unwanted Christmas presents. Her desk lamp shone a lonely stream of light across the tidy surface.

  Her heart sank. Even though Will would be at the library most of the day, she hoped he’d be at his desk, his earbuds stuffed in his ears. He might be a little odd and quiet, but he was good company.

  She opened the journal on the top of the stack. Even as she typed, her thoughts strayed to the black box in her trunk. Was there something sinister about the box? Craig seemed so convinced.

  Paula turned her attentions back to the journal—horrid misspellings, dreadful grammar. She eyed the remaining half dozen in the stack and sighed.

  Two-and-a-half mind-numbing hours later Will strolled into their office. “Hey, Paula.”

  He was a sight for sore eyes. Sore, dry, and very tired eyes. But at least she’d finished transcribing three of the journals. She spun away from her computer and gave him a smile. “Hey, how was the library? Get some research done?”

  He stroked his beard. “It was good. You know, the usual—books, note cards, the whole bit. And you? Did you have a good morning?” He glanced at her stack of journals.

  “Good.” Then she blurted out something that had been on her mind since the morning. “Hey, have you ever heard of someone complaining about a device?”

  He sat down, leaned back, and rubbed his hand across his mouth. “Like a malfunction?”

  “No, more like a subject’s physical reaction to the box.”

  “To reading auras?”

  “Yeah.”

  “An aura is an electrical impulse. The box picks up on electrical impulses outside the body,” he said simply. “It can’t ‘do’ anything to you if that’s what you mean.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Although I suppose if something electronic were drawing a large amount of power, there could be problems.”

  “What kinds of problems?”

  “Power fluctuations. Funky readings. That kind of thing.”

  “What do you mean?” Paula leaned forward.

  Will rolled toward her. “Okay, it’s like this, if one of our subjects has a TV on or a computer or even a high-wattage lamp plugged in too close to the device, it’ll give out strange readings. One of the agreements the subjects have to sign is that they won’t operate the box within five feet of another electronic device while the box is taking its readings.”

  “Right. I know that. But how would that affect someone physically?”

  “It wouldn’t. There’s no way that box is doing anything to a subject. The AIM is recording auras. That’s it. Nothing more.”

  She nodded, but her mind processed everything.

  If the box only read someone’s aura, why would Craig think the box caused his headaches? And why would he be so adamant about severing his ties with the study?

  “Thanks, Will.” She grabbed his arm and gave it a squeeze. “I appreciate your thoughts on this.”

  “Anytime.”

  Her cell phone rang, and she smiled apologetically. “Excuse me.” She swiped a finger across the screen. “Hello?”

  “This is Craig. You asked me to call if I thought of anything else.”

  The way he hightailed it out of the frat house this morning, she thought for sure she’d never hear from him again.

  “Yes?” A small tingle of curiosity ran up her spine.

  “I have a couple of memory sticks and an extra power cord. It came with the set-up. I don’t want anyone to accuse me of stealing anything.”

  “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “What should I do with them? Drop them off at the department?”

  Paula imagined the pruney lips of Ms. Caldwell turned down in a frown when Craig showed up at her desk to drop off the extra equipment. And guess who she’
d probably blame for the inconvenience? The person assigned to handle this particular problem, of course. Paula had recognized the secretary’s pinched writing on the note Dr. Pritchard gave her earlier today. The professor wasn’t the only one who knew the identity of Subject #22.

  “Why don’t I come by and pick it up? I’m going past your house later on today. Let’s say around six?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Okay, and thanks for the call.”

  ***

  At 5:50 Paula took a short-cut through the faculty parking lot, which dumped her about a block away from fraternity row. She rounded the last corner onto North Avenue. Two campus security cars blocked the street.

  Only a few doors down stood the Omega Omicron house.

  Great. How was she going to pick up that stuff now?

  She stopped for the roadblock, and an officer approached her window. He tapped on the glass with his finger. She rolled it down.

  “You’ll have to turn around, miss.”

  “I just need to get to the Omega Omicron house. Right there.” She pointed at the house decorated with the big red-and-gray letters.

  Security officers swarmed on the front lawn. A knot of frat brothers stood in the driveway smoking cigarettes and talking.

  “I’m sorry, no one’s allowed through. You’ll have to turn around.”

  “What happened? Why is campus security here?”

  “There’s been a suicide, miss. Like I said, you’ll have to turn around.” The officer turned away and talked into the radio clipped to his uniform.

  An icy tendril of dread crept down her spine. She had been at the frat house only a few hours ago, and everything had appeared so normal. So regular.

  She backed up and made a three-point turn. When she drove away from the chaotic scene, she glanced in her rearview mirror. An EMT wheeled a stretcher down the drive, a black plastic body bag strapped to it.

  She looked away. The sight of the body bag brought back a flood of long-suppressed memories. And right now, she didn’t want to confront them. She grew hyper-aware of every inch of roadway, each green-and-white street sign, every landmark on campus. She willed herself not to remember, not to let the feeling overtake her. Get out of control. A familiar pressure built behind her eyes. Gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white, she made her thoughts drift in another direction.