hadn’t told me much about them when I was little. I knew she and Dad had had all kinds of equipment, but if Dad still had any of it, I had no idea where it was or how it worked.
So I grabbed my laptop and searched the Internet for paranormal investigation techniques.
Along with all kinds of warnings that I pretty much ignored, I found plenty of information about equipment. Unfortunately, I didn’t have access to things like digital thermometers or electromagnetic field detectors or fancy cameras. I did have the digital camera on my phone, though, and I also had an app for recording sound bites. I thought that would work well enough as a digital voice recorder. Photos might give me proof of spirit activity, and recordings could give me something called EVP—electronic voice phenomena. According to my reading, it seemed like ghostly noises that weren’t audible in person sometimes came through in recordings.
The trick would be finding a way to conduct the investigation at a time when the locker room wasn’t full of girls dressing for gym. For that, I’d have to be a little sneaky. Like I said, sometimes you’ve got to break a few rules when you’re dealing with ghosts.
The next morning in the locker room, I changed clothes as fast as possible, while the blood pounded in my ears and that horrible rage constricted around me. I slipped my phone into the pocket of my gym shorts, stuffed my regular clothes and bag into my locker, and skidded into the gymat full speed. I wasn’t ready to go back in the locker room yet. I wasn’t, I wasn’t, I wasn’t. Maybe I’d just stay out here and…
Then I saw Coach Frucile and several students setting up a volleyball net. Hmm, which was worse: the wheezing evil in the locker room or volleyball?
Considering my habit of getting hit in the head by gym equipment, I figured it was a tie.
At least I lucked out—my team wasn’t among the first to play, so we sat on the bleachers and watched while two other teams struggled on the court. Coach Frucile was focused on the game, yelling out instructions and corrections and insults I assumed were supposed to be encouraging. She wasn’t paying any attention to the bleachers at all, so after a few minutes I was able to slide off my seat and slip out into the side hall. From there, I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and headed back into the locker room.
The thing swelled around me again immediately, all sorrow and anger and invisible darkness, a fog bank of unrest. It dripped out from the showers and filled the room, silent and creeping, as heavy and drifting as an approaching thunderstorm. Fighting against it, I pulled out my phone and started snapping photos of the room around me. I couldn’t see anything on my phone’s tiny screen, but later Iwould transfer the pictures to my computer and blow them up to study them more closely.
The air pulsed, physically pushing me. Although everything looked still, I felt like I was fighting the winds of a hurricane. Hot spots turned into cold spots, then back again. I went from sweating to shivering.
The pressure in my head was starting to blur my vision again. I switched to the recorder app and tried to talk to the thing. According to what I’d read online, I was supposed to ask questions, then wait for answers that might not be audible until I played the recording back.
“Who are you?” I asked. I was yelling, but the blood pounding in my ears drowned out even the sound of my own voice. “What do you want? Is there something you need help with? Something that would let you move on?”
Then I looked down at the phone. Its screen was blank; it had turned off. I tried to turn it back on, but nothing happened. It was dead.
So much for getting EVP.
Suddenly something wrenched the phone from my fingers and flung it across the room, into the shower alcove. The overhead lights flickered, and unlocked locker doors began to open and slam shut repeatedly. A first aid kit bolted to the wall
So I grabbed my laptop and searched the Internet for paranormal investigation techniques.
Along with all kinds of warnings that I pretty much ignored, I found plenty of information about equipment. Unfortunately, I didn’t have access to things like digital thermometers or electromagnetic field detectors or fancy cameras. I did have the digital camera on my phone, though, and I also had an app for recording sound bites. I thought that would work well enough as a digital voice recorder. Photos might give me proof of spirit activity, and recordings could give me something called EVP—electronic voice phenomena. According to my reading, it seemed like ghostly noises that weren’t audible in person sometimes came through in recordings.
The trick would be finding a way to conduct the investigation at a time when the locker room wasn’t full of girls dressing for gym. For that, I’d have to be a little sneaky. Like I said, sometimes you’ve got to break a few rules when you’re dealing with ghosts.
The next morning in the locker room, I changed clothes as fast as possible, while the blood pounded in my ears and that horrible rage constricted around me. I slipped my phone into the pocket of my gym shorts, stuffed my regular clothes and bag into my locker, and skidded into the gymat full speed. I wasn’t ready to go back in the locker room yet. I wasn’t, I wasn’t, I wasn’t. Maybe I’d just stay out here and…
Then I saw Coach Frucile and several students setting up a volleyball net. Hmm, which was worse: the wheezing evil in the locker room or volleyball?
Considering my habit of getting hit in the head by gym equipment, I figured it was a tie.
At least I lucked out—my team wasn’t among the first to play, so we sat on the bleachers and watched while two other teams struggled on the court. Coach Frucile was focused on the game, yelling out instructions and corrections and insults I assumed were supposed to be encouraging. She wasn’t paying any attention to the bleachers at all, so after a few minutes I was able to slide off my seat and slip out into the side hall. From there, I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and headed back into the locker room.
The thing swelled around me again immediately, all sorrow and anger and invisible darkness, a fog bank of unrest. It dripped out from the showers and filled the room, silent and creeping, as heavy and drifting as an approaching thunderstorm. Fighting against it, I pulled out my phone and started snapping photos of the room around me. I couldn’t see anything on my phone’s tiny screen, but later Iwould transfer the pictures to my computer and blow them up to study them more closely.
The air pulsed, physically pushing me. Although everything looked still, I felt like I was fighting the winds of a hurricane. Hot spots turned into cold spots, then back again. I went from sweating to shivering.
The pressure in my head was starting to blur my vision again. I switched to the recorder app and tried to talk to the thing. According to what I’d read online, I was supposed to ask questions, then wait for answers that might not be audible until I played the recording back.
“Who are you?” I asked. I was yelling, but the blood pounding in my ears drowned out even the sound of my own voice. “What do you want? Is there something you need help with? Something that would let you move on?”
Then I looked down at the phone. Its screen was blank; it had turned off. I tried to turn it back on, but nothing happened. It was dead.
So much for getting EVP.
Suddenly something wrenched the phone from my fingers and flung it across the room, into the shower alcove. The overhead lights flickered, and unlocked locker doors began to open and slam shut repeatedly. A first aid kit bolted to the wall
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