Teenage Psychic on Campus

by Pamela Woods-Jackson

  “Unlikely,” Annabeth said with a yawn.

  “Your pictures are good.” Gary pointed to the one she’d snapped just as Tricia had screamed “Shooter” and started the student panic.

  “Yeah, pictures turned out great, and so did Caryn’s article. She went to the newspaper office about five a.m. this morning.” Annabeth winced at that thought.

  “At least Caryn wasn’t confronted by a deadbeat parent last night.”

  “Oh, you mean Ned?” Annabeth said. “Sorry ’bout that. I honestly thought Dad would send one of the junior associates, not a partner. How’d that go, anyway?”

  Gary shook his head. “It didn’t. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Had to walk three miles back to the dorm.”

  Annabeth reached out and patted Gary’s arm. “Sorry. Why didn’t you say something? Dr. Paxton would’ve given you a ride.”

  “Order number seventy-three,” a voice called over the PA.

  Gary checked his receipt. “That’s me,” he said. “Speaking of Paxton, have you heard from Sean yet?”

  “No. Probably sleeping it off at his parents’ house. I’ll text him later. Like me, he’s eager to get that ghost hunt set up.”

  Gary groaned. Why had he thought the ghost hunt thing might just go away? He went to the register to pick up his food, swiped his card and left.

  Gary couldn’t believe play rehearsal hadn’t been called off. Poor Foster Benning was wearing sunglasses indoors, had a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, and took frequent sips from his water bottle. “Let’s start from the top of Act Two,” he croaked.

  Gary didn’t really feel too sorry for the guy since he had no one to blame but himself. Even though this rehearsal in the middle of Saturday morning had been scheduled before last night’s fiasco, Foster didn’t look like he was going to make it through. Gary sat down in the middle of a row of seats in the rehearsal studio, glancing at his Pride and Prejudice script between bites of his breakfast. Feeling confident enough about his lines, he stuffed the script into his backpack and tossed the heavy bag and the empty Styrofoam box on the floor by his feet. They landed with a dull thud, causing Foster to flinch and chug more water.

  Gary hopped up onstage. The scene was with Tricia Palmer as Elizabeth Bennet, Delia Ferguson as her sister Jane, Gary himself as Mr. Bingley, and the arrogant Mr. Darcy, played by Kevin Michaels. Delia knew most of her lines, but after last night Tricia didn’t appear to be in much better condition than Foster, and was still reading from the script.

  “Tricia,” Foster said in a barely audible voice, “isn’t it time you were off book? Opening night is in a couple of weeks.”

  Good news as far as Gary was concerned. In a little over two weeks he’d be done with this Jane Austen farce. Well, Brenda was proud of him and would be in the audience, like she was for every play he’d ever been in, and he guessed Sean and Annabeth would be, too, but otherwise Gary hoped attendance was sparse. Despite all the pre-play hype, and some bad publicity no thanks to Caryn Alderson, it wasn’t looking to be a runaway hit.

  Tricia shaded her eyes from the glare of the spotlight. “I had a bad night, Foster. I’ll get there by next rehearsal.”

  “Let’s take a break,” Foster said, just before dashing out the door.

  Gary sighed as Tricia and Delia sat down on the stage floor to run lines. He glared at Kevin Michaels, who was leaning against a wooden frame that was posing as the fireplace mantel, perusing his script. How that guy ever got the lead was a mystery. Kevin stood about half a foot shorter than Gary and was a little overweight, so he hardly looked like the handsome leading man all the girls were expected to swoon over. Maybe with the right costuming… Gary shrugged. He went back to his seat and thought about getting out his copy of the play, but decided not to bother, since he was way ahead of his fellow actors.

  And he’d just found out some good news. Gary had stopped by the theatre department’s bulletin board on his way in and had seen a call out for a January production of Macbeth. That was what he’d been hoping for, a lead in one of Shakespeare’s tragedies. As far as Gary was concerned, that part was as good as his. Tryouts were right before Thanksgiving break, so he had a couple of weeks to get this silly rom-com behind him and focus on what was important.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Mind if I join you?” Caryn didn’t wait for an answer but sat down in the seat next to Gary and pulled out a notepad.

  “What are you doing here?” Gary eyed her suspiciously, because the last time she’d shown up here, he’d found himself the focus of a very unflattering op-ed piece.

  “I need to interview Tricia about last night.” She said that loud enough that everyone turned to stare. Tricia put her script in front of her face, like that would hide her.

  Gary breathed a sigh of relief. Caryn was out to get someone else this time.

  “Oh, by the way, how did it go with your father last night?” she asked.

  “You’re the psychic. You tell me.” To avoid letting any emotions show, he kept his eyes facing front toward the stage.

  Caryn didn’t say anything for so long that Gary was sure he’d gotten to her with that zinger, but finally she replied, “Since you asked, it didn’t go well. And it won’t, not until some other information comes to light.”

  “Like what?” Gary said a little louder than he intended.

  “Can we please have quiet?” Foster growled as he ambled back into the studio.

  Caryn smirked and put her finger to her lips to shush Gary. “If I tell you that,” she whispered, “I deprive you of the fun of finding out.”

  Fun, huh? Gary couldn’t imagine what could be fun about bumping into a father whose only contribution to his life had been disappointment. Not to mention how much Ned had hurt Brenda. That was unforgiveable.

  “Gary, Kevin, let’s go!” Foster called, then winced at his own loud voice and put the bottle of water to his forehead to relieve the throbbing.

  Gary scouted out the rehearsal hall as he walked up onstage. “Benning, I think Kevin left,” he said. “Want me to go ahead without Darcy?”

  Foster threw himself into his director’s chair, looking pale and sweaty, and buried his face in his hands. “No. I’m calling it. Let’s all get back here tomorrow and start fresh.”

  “Fine by me,” Gary said. He reached to the floor next to Caryn, hoisted up his backpack and threw it over one shoulder. “I have to get to the bookstore before Ellis fires me.”

  Caryn playfully poked Gary’s shoulder. “I think we may have been the only two sober people at that party last night, and—”

  “—and speaking of,” Gary said, “what happened to that hat you borrowed?”

  She sidestepped around Gary. “Hey, I gotta go grab Tricia. I’ll see you next weekend at the ghost hunt.”

  Gary was thunderstruck. “Next weekend?”

  “Check your email,” Caryn called over her shoulder. “Hey, Tricia, wait up!”

  ****

  Timing was perfect, since I didn’t want to explain to Gary about that cloche hat. After leaving the police station, I’d changed clothes in my dorm room to the dulcet tones of Annabeth’s snoring, before heading to the newspaper office to write my story. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that the campus was eerie-quiet, but of course it was five a.m. after an all-night party turned-snowball fight-turned sniper hoax. Since my heavy winter coat was still at the frat house, I had to wear my lined jean jacket, which I’d pulled tightly around me as I walked across The Commons. Stray gloves, abandoned stocking caps, a lone snow boot, and a glittery cape were left strewn around, abandoned when the fight took an alarming turn. As I had picked my way through all the debris, I looked down and there it was—the borrowed cloche hat. I snatched it up, dusted the mud off, and stuffed it in my shoulder bag, hoping I could clean it up before returning it. I truly felt bad about borrowing something from the theatre department with no one’s permission, and then letting it get damaged. I wasn’t Gary Riddell’s bi
ggest fan, but this wasn’t his fault and I didn’t want him to get in trouble for vouching for me.

  I caught up to Tricia in the hallway, just before she darted through the main door that led out onto campus, probably to avoid me if I had to guess. I shoved my phone in her face. “I’ve got a few questions—”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet you do.” Tricia had a scowl on her face as she reached for the door.

  “So can you tell me—or I should say tell the readers of the Hamilton Campus Herald—exactly what you saw on the dorm’s patio balcony last night, and how your comments were misconstrued?”

  “‘Misconstrued’ huh?” Tricia snarked. “I saw what I saw, I said what I said, and if you want anything else, go talk to that police detective who took my statement.”

  “I already did. But I’d like to quote you directly.”

  “Look, Caryn,” Tricia said, one hand on her hip, the other on the open door, “I’m not trying to be your ticket to big-time newspaper fame. So back off.”

  “Well, if you don’t answer my questions,” I said with a steady gaze, “maybe I’ll just write about how you deliberately started that riot.”

  Tricia gasped and her eyes got real wide. “How would you know that?”

  I smiled as sweetly as I could, considering all the trouble the girl had caused, and offered my hand as if to shake. “Caryn Alderson, psychic medium, at your service.”

  “What kind of newspaper reporter claims to be psychic?” Tricia huffed as she went out the door, but then leaned back in. “You and Gary the ghost whisperer are a coupla weirdos.”

  I blew out a puff of air and put my notebook away. I’d just have to go with the information I already had, which I’d mostly gotten from Captain Albers. I psychically knew that Tricia had deliberately chosen her words to elicit a reaction from the crowd, although I don’t think she’d thought through the ramifications. But she was right about one thing—psychic hits didn’t translate into news stories unless there were facts to back them up. Maybe it was time to let this particular story slide to the back pages.

  That ghost hunt at the haunted Pelson Farm was looking like a better story opportunity. And then I remembered Uncle Omar’s warning, that we’d find more than ghosts there. What could he mean?

  ****

  Gary fervently hoped he didn’t have to hear one more word about that stupid ghost stalking. He had too many balls in the air right now and he couldn’t justify wasting time on it. Since it hadn’t happened on Halloween, which seemed like the whole point anyway, he didn’t see why the Ghost Stalkers couldn’t just go hook up their EVP equipment and check out that old farmhouse on their own.

  He hurried into the bookstore, clocked in and put on his apron and nametag. There was no hurry about helping customers, since the bookstore was practically deserted, so Gary took advantage of the relative quiet to pull up his emails on one of the computers Ellis reserved for checking inventory.

  Sure enough, just like Caryn said, there was an email from Barry Lansing with the subject line “Ghost Stalkers redux.”

  Gary:

  Ghost Stalkers has rescheduled the Pelson ghost stalking for next Friday night. We’re all meeting out there at nine p.m. Since so many people have seen The Lady in White on the premises, we need your expertise if our equipment doesn’t pick up anything. Let me know ASAP.

  Sincerely,

  Barry Lansing, President

  Gary sighed. He hit reply and said he’d be there since he’d already promised. There goes another perfectly good Friday night, he thought. He logged out of his email and went to the theatre arts department’s online bulletin board. He pulled up the Pride and Prejudice rehearsal schedule and saw that he was called for a brief run-through next Friday afternoon. Hopefully Foster would dismiss early so he could get to whatever party he was going to and let the rest of the cast have their evening free.

  Ellis came up behind him and tapped his shoulder. “What are you reading?”

  Gary quickly switched the screen to the store’s inventory spreadsheet. “Just checking what supplies to order.”

  Ellis lifted an eyebrow. “And the play practice schedule, too, I suppose.” She grinned. “Relax, Gary, I’m not mad. It’s not busy here today.”

  “Thanks, Ellis. I don’t know what I’d do without this job.”

  “That scholarship money would have to stretch a lot farther, I guess,” Ellis said. “It’s a good thing I don’t have you scheduled on Friday, because I hear the Ghost Stalkers Club has you roped in as resident medium.”

  Gary sucked in his breath. “Ellis, how did you—?”

  “Know you’re a medium, or know the Ghost Stalkers pressed you into service?” She waved toward the coffee bar. “I read the campus newspaper and listen to the gossip.”

  “Ellis, I swear I’m not a medium,” Gary said.

  “Maybe you should quit arguing about semantics.”

  Gary’s eyes opened wide when he realized Ellis didn’t say that. Was there a ghost in here somewhere, or maybe he just imagined it due to lack of sleep? At first he wasn’t sure, but then he caught sight of her for a second before she vanished. If this was a new ghost, newly dead or just one he hadn’t seen before on campus, she looked to be about his mother’s age. That gave him cold shivers.

  He quickly averted his eyes, hoping Ellis couldn’t tell something was bothering him. “I’ll be straightening the storage room if you need me.”

  ****

  I’d been running on nervous energy for nearly twenty-four hours, so I was totally wrung out when I got back to my dorm after my aborted interview with Tricia Palmer. I finally had time to shower and then, spying my muddy clothes from last night that I’d stuffed in a plastic bag, reminded myself to drop them and the cloche hat at the dry cleaners when I woke up.

  Annabeth was long gone, having gotten a reasonable amount of sleep, I guess. I hung up my jeans and sweater, pulled on some sweats, and collapsed onto the bed. It wasn’t long before I drifted off.

  I take hesitant steps as I approach that rickety old farmhouse. I gather my courage and get past the front porch and into the house. I brush aside cobwebs and nearly trip on buckled floorboards.

  Music’s playing. Not eerie music, but rock music. It’s coming from…

  “Back again?”

  I turn around to see Uncle Omar. “What’s going on here?” I demand.

  “It’s coming from the basement, Caryn. It’s coming from…”

  I jerked awake. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and tried to remember the dream, but just like last time, it slipped away before I could get a handle on it. So frustrating.

  I went to the bathroom and splashed water in my face, then returned to my bed. Instead of going back to sleep, though, I picked up my phone and punched in Mom’s number.

  “Caryn! What a surprise,” she said.

  “Mom, I’m worried. I keep having these dreams, weird dreams, but then when I wake up I can’t remember a thing.”

  Mom was silent a moment. “Are you sure there’s not something that sticks out in your mind?”

  I sighed. “Nothing. Just a creepy feeling.”

  “Did you ask Omar?”

  “I tried. He basically said it involves my life so I’d have to wait it out.”

  She chuckled. “Well, there you are. From the mouth of my very smart, dead brother.”

  I decided to just let it go, since I was too tired to try and puzzle it out. “Mom, did you see my byline in the Herald?”

  We chatted about that adventure for a few minutes and then hung up. I was almost afraid to drift back to sleep for fear of having another nightmare. Almost.

  ****

  When Gary got back to his dorm room at the end of his work shift that night, he found Sean sprawled on the bed, watching some sports recap on TV.

  “You’re looking a little better than the last time I saw you,” Gary said. He tossed his backpack on the floor next to his bed, kicked off his boots and collapsed on top of the unmade covers.

&nbs
p; “Dad gave me some crazy hangover cure. Tomato juice, Worcestershire sauce, a raw egg.” Sean shuddered.

  “Sounds disgusting.” Gary stared up at the ceiling. He was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open.

  “It was gross, but it worked. So did the long, boring lecture about underage drinking.”

  “I’m dead tired, Sean, so if you don’t mind—”

  “No problem.” Sean reached for the remote and did some last-minute channel surfing, but just as he was about to turn off the TV, he landed on the campus’s in-house information channel. “Hey, look at that!”

  Gary peeked open one eye, but try as he might he couldn’t get his eyes to focus on the screen. “What?”

  “You know that kid that went missing a week or so ago? Eddie Carson? The kid still hasn’t turned up.”

  Gary grimaced. “That sucks, but I don’t get why you’re so fascinated with it. Maybe you should ask Caryn to get a psychic read on the kid.”

  Sean turned off the TV. “Maybe. But they’re organizing a search party for him in Belford. That was a public service announcement asking for student volunteers.”

  Gary closed his eyes. “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning. First light.”

  Gary pulled off his jeans and slipped under the bedcovers. “I feel bad for the kid, I really do, but if I don’t get some sleep…” He drifted off.

  Chapter 10

  I shaded my eyes from the glare of the early morning sun. At least the weather had improved, because it was a good thirty degrees warmer than it was two days ago. And most of the snow had already melted. “I can’t believe you dragged me out at this hour, Annabeth.” I checked the time on my phone. Eight a.m. “Besides, the kid’s not anywhere around here.”

  Annabeth’s head whipped around. “You sure?”

  “One hundred and five percent.”

  She aimed her camera at the gathering crowd of volunteers. “Well then, where is he? All these people here are hoping to find him.” She lowered her camera. “Or his remains.”

  I could see Annabeth was upset about the fate of this missing child, so I concentrated really hard to try to find an answer. I sighed. “I don’t know where he is, but I do know two things: he’s not here and he’s not dead. That’s all I can pick up. But keep your camera ready because this is a good human interest story.”