Spirit Legacy Page 16

  “Yeah, I figured that much out, seeing as you’re walking straight for the front door,” Sam chuckled. “I meant what class have you got now?”

  “Introduction to Parapsychology.”

  The response was predictable. “What? But you’re a freshman!? That’s a senior seminar! How the hell did you manage that one?”

  “My devilish good looks?”

  Sam was shaking his head in disbelief. “Wow, I’m impressed. I can’t believe that Pierce cracked and signed you in.”

  “It’s not the coup you imagine, Sam,” I lied, more smoothly than I would have thought myself capable. “One of my high school teachers in New York was a buddy of his. He emailed Pierce and that’s how we got introduced. Anyway, I’m just auditing.”

  “Oh. Well, still. I had no idea you were interested in that stuff. I mean, after the whole nightmare thing, I kinda figured that would be outside of your comfort zone.”

  I just shrugged and tried to change the subject.

  “What class are you off to?”

  Sam flung his arm around me. “Introduction to Parapsychology.”

  I was too shocked to remain cool. “What? But you’re only a junior! How did you get into that class?”

  “One of the perks of campus employment. I’m Pierce’s lab assistant.” His voice contained a hint of pride.

  “Will someone please explain to me how everyone else winds up with these interesting jobs and I’m stuck doling out mystery meat casserole in a hairnet!” I shouted.

  “Calm down, I did my time in lunch lady land freshman year. It’s just about the only job you can get in your first year. I just started with Pierce this past fall. I’m a bio major, so I got assigned to someone in the science department.”

  “What’s it like, working for him? What do you do?” I tried to sound casual, though I was burning with curiosity.

  Sam gave a knowing laugh. “Yeah, he’s pretty intimidating at first. Comes off as a bit of an asshole. But it’s been pretty cool, actually. I mostly just set up equipment and organize papers. I’ve also become an expert in the art of the copy machine. So after a semester of generally not screwing things up, he told me I could take the class, if I wanted to. Think of it as one of the perks of the job, I guess.”

  He held the door open for me. It would be nice to know someone in the class, and yet, I couldn’t help thinking that this was going to complicate things. A lot.

  When Sam and I arrived in the lecture hall, there was a chair in the center of the floor in front of the lectern. It was draped in a long black swath of fabric that fell in folds to the floor. Everyone was pointing at it and murmuring with curiosity. Pierce entered with a little smirk and deposited his bag by the desk before coming to sit on the front table. He looked satisfied, so I guessed the chair was attracting the sort of attention he expected. He also looked ridiculously out of place. If anyone who didn’t know him had walked in, they would have thought that some commune hippie had wandered in off the street, looking to score some weed.

  He began talking, projecting a powerful voice out over the pre-lecture buzz. “Good morning everyone. I would like to sincerely welcome you to the first day of class. It is my hope that this will be a very informative semester for all of us, as we are stepping into a field about which little can be proven and even less can be rationally believed to be true. So let me say that if you are the kind of person who needs cold hard facts and formulas to underlie everything you deem worthy of study, you are in the wrong fucking class. I don’t want you in my lecture hall. Get the hell out and do it now.”

  The room was oppressively silent. No one moved. The kid next to me wasn’t even breathing. We were all Pierce’s captive audience and he knew it.

  “No one leaving? Brilliant!” He clapped his hands together. “Now, I could start throwing all kinds of scientific terminology at you today, but I think we’d best start with the kind of demonstration that you are likely to see with some frequency in here. It offers a fair example of the general content, as well as an accurate depiction of the kind of creative thinking required to get anything out of this class. It is the contention of many in the field of parapsychology that everything in the world has its own unique energy.”

  Pens and pencils started scratching wildly.

  “I think many of us would admit that we can sense this among people. Our own individual make-ups emit a certain frequency, so to speak, so that the feeling we get hanging around one person is very different than the feeling we get hanging around someone else. Would you all agree?”

  There was a dull murmur of assent accompanied by some nodding heads.

  All eyes were trained on the chair.

  “Everything on earth has energy. We are all made up of energy; places have energy, inanimate objects have energy. Not every energy field is equally strong, nor is everyone equally sensitive to those energy fields. But they do exist, and it is a heightened sensitivity to these energies that we commonly refer to as a sixth sense. How many of you would say that you have a sixth sense?”

  Not a single person raised his hand.

  “Oh, come on, don’t be modest, people! Someone must have had an experience in life where they sensed something based purely on a feeling. Anyone?”

  A red-headed girl in the front corner raised her hand tentatively.

  Pierce swung around. “Yes, Miss …?”

  “Taylor. Sarah Taylor”

  “Okay, Miss Taylor. You’ve had an experience like this?”

  Sarah looked like she already regretted putting up her hand, but she went on. “Well, I don’t know if this is what you’re talking about, but there was this one time, when I got home from school, and the house was supposed to be empty. But when I walked in the door, I … sort of felt that there was someone there who wasn’t supposed to be.”

  “You didn’t hear or see anything?” Pierce probed.

  “No, everything looked normal. And I didn’t hear anything either; it was all quiet.”

  “Unusual smells maybe?”

  “No, nothing like that. But it was like I could feel someone in the other room. I just knew he was there.”

  “And was there someone there?”

  “Yeah, my brother’s friend had snuck in the window to borrow a Play-Station game. Scared the crap out of me,” she finished. A few people laughed, including Pierce.

  “Well, not the dramatic conclusion we were all expecting, but effective nonetheless. So can you describe how you knew someone was in your house?”

  “No, I can’t really explain it. I just sensed it.”

  Pierce clapped again. The sound echoed around the hall and several people jumped in surprise. “Ah, the classic response! She ‘sensed’ it. She cannot identify one of her other five senses as having a part in it, and yet she sensed it. People can have very strong energies that we can pick up on. But did you know that objects can have strong energies as well?”

  A few people looked surprised by this revelation. Another student raised his hand, a boy this time.

  “Yes, and your name is?” Pierce called, glancing at his roster.

  “Ben Stanton,” the boy replied in a carrying, confident voice. I recognized him as one of a crowd of basketball team members who were often in the dining hall at the same time I worked the breakfast shift. “So, I’ve got this pocket watch that used to be my grandfather’s, right? And whenever I take it out of the case, I sort of get this feeling that my grandfather is in the room. Is that what you’re talking about?”

  “Sort of, yes. But part of your experience could be that you know that the watch belonged to your grandfather, so it is not necessarily the energy of the watch, but the sight of the familiar object that evokes the feeling of your grandfather’s presence. On the other hand, it could well be that that object has a very powerful energy of its own. Did your grandfather like that watch?”

  “Yeah, he wore it all the time.”

  “So would you say he was attached to it?”

  “Definitely. My
mom thought he should be buried with it, but my grandmother gave it to me instead.”

  “Okay, then. So your grandfather’s pocketwatch would be a good object for this particular exercise. There is a theory that objects to which people were particularly attached have an aura memory.” Pierce turned and wrote the term on the whiteboard behind him. A hundred heads bent in unison over a hundred notebooks and scribbled the same term with a hundred pens.

  “That is, they retain the energy of the person who owned it,” Pierce explained. “The aura memory of a favorite or special object is especially strong. Those with a sixth sense can often feel and interpret that energy.

  Which brings us to today’s demonstration.” Pierce waved with a flourish to the chair under the cloth. “We will test this theory,” he continued, “through a group activity. Sarah!” He pointed at her suddenly. “Can you tell me what I have under that cloth?”

  Sarah shook her head.

  “Ben? Any idea?”

  “A chair?” Ben suggested. We all laughed.

  “Very observant, jackass,” Pierce said. “And on the chair?”

  Ben shrugged. “No idea.”

  “Ben, would you come on up here?” Pierce asked.

  Ben stood up a bit reluctantly and joined Pierce on the platform. One of his buddies chanted his name and Ben looked over at him, grinning.

  “Okay, Ben. You have just told us that your grandfather’s pocket watch makes you ‘feel’ the presence of your grandfather. What does this object under here make you feel?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “I don’t even know what it is.”

  Pierce smiled as though Ben had said the very thing he hoped he would say. “Ah. We have no familiarity with this object. It is a mystery to us. We don’t know anything about it, and therefore, any information we can gather about it will come purely from our own abilities to tap into our sixth sense.”

  Pierce was gazing around the room now at each of us in turn as though wondering which of us would be able to do it. I thought that his eyes lingered on me for a particularly long moment, but that might just have been my own paranoia. I didn’t worry much about it. I was too curious about what was under that sheet, just like everyone else.

  “As in any good scientific experiment, we are testing a hypothesis. But in order to do that, we need to have a control. Any science buffs want to explain for the humanities kids what a control is?” Pierce asked, clearly baiting us.

  Just to spite him, a girl I recognized as a regular from the art building raised her hand.

  “Yes, Miss …?”

  “Gonzales. Art major.”

  Pierce smiled appreciatively. “Yes, Miss Gonzales?”

  “A control is a test sample that isn’t exposed to any outside variables.”

  “That is correct, thank you. Notice we’re using science-y words, for those of you who think we are somehow dealing outside the realm of legitimate science here. By removing all variables, we can be sure that none of those factors are affecting our outcome. The variables, in this case, are our other five senses and previous knowledge of the circumstances surrounding the object in question. Do you all follow me?”

  “So,” Ben said, “if I can tell you anything about what’s under the sheet, it’s because I used my sixth sense.”

  “Exactly. So, any guesses? Do you feel anything?”

  Ben stood there staring at the sheet for about ten seconds. “Nope!” he announced finally.

  We all laughed again.

  Pierce stepped around to stand beside Ben. “Okay, try this. Stand right in front of the chair and place your hands close to the outside of the sheet. Now concentrate for a minute or so and see if you can pick up on the energy of that object.”

  Ben stepped forward and did as he was told. He was so tall that he had to bend almost in half to put his hands at the level of the concealed object. He started moving his hands slowly through the air around the sheet. The look on his face advertised that he felt pretty stupid. I didn’t blame him. He looked pretty stupid, to be honest.

  After a couple of initial sniggers, though, the class seemed to be holding its collective breath. Finally after what seemed like forever, Ben straightened up.

  “How about now, Ben? Any impressions?” Pierce asked.

  “Well, I ….”

  “Shut up!” Pierce shouted. “Don’t tell me a thing! Go back to your seat and write it down. I’m now going to open the floor. Anyone who is interested in trying may come down and attempt to sense the object. Don’t share your thoughts with anyone. Write all of it down confidentially. It’s very important not to censor yourselves. Any random thought you have while concentrating could be connected.”

  At first, no one moved. All the students were craning their necks around to see if anyone else was getting up.

  “Come on people, now is not the time for bashfulness. Take the leap or you won’t learn much in this class!” Pierce yelled.

  Gradually, people began to rise from their seats and form a clump in the center aisle. Several people were crowded around the chair at a time, their hands groping in nothingness around the outside of the sheet. Even those who’d chosen not to wait in line were staring intently at the sheet, as though they had X-ray vision.

  “What do you think? Do you want to give it a try?” Sam asked.

  “No, thanks. I think I’m gonna sit this one out,” I said.

  “Not one for getting up in front of people, are you?”

  “You could say that.”

  I watched Sam head down the aisle to join the queue of whispering students. I had no intention of drawing attention to myself in this class. It was bad enough that word had circulated that a freshman had somehow weaseled her way into the most popular senior seminar on campus, and that most people would eventually figure out that freshman was me. I wasn’t about to get up in front of everyone and risk something weird happening. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t try from my seat.

  From where I was sitting in the corner of the room, I had a clear view of the chair. Twiddling a pencil in my hand, I started concentrating on the sheet. I wasn’t really sure how to go about it. I tried visualizing the object through the sheet, but nothing came to me; the sheet remained stubbornly opaque. Then I tried running through a list of small objects in my head, to see if anything stood out. Book, plate, picture, mirror, toy, dress, candlestick, hairbrush, hat. Nothing.

  “Come on, what are you?” I thought.

  No, that was the wrong question. The question wasn’t “what are you.” It was “who are you.”

  I stared at the sheet and started to focus not on the object itself, but who had touched the object. I let my pencil doodle thoughtlessly across my notes. Who had held it? Used it? How did they feel about that object?

  It’s mine.

  A little voice had woken up in my head, claiming the object for its own. It was barely more than a whisper, but I could hear it clearly.

  It’s yours?

  Yes. It’s my favorite.

  Your favorite what?

  My favorite doll.

  A doll. It was a doll. I knew it. The voice had just told me.

  Who gave you your doll?

  Uncle Timothy. He buys me lots of toys.

  That’s very nice of him.

  Yes, he’s very nice to me.

  What’s your name?

  Lydia.

  “Well, I think we can cross world famous psychic off my list of future career options.”

  I jumped about a foot out of my seat. My pencil skittered across my desk and onto the floor. I hadn’t even seen Sam coming back.

  “Whoa, sorry! Are you okay?” Sam bent down to retrieve my pencil.

  I tried to quiet my frantic heart with a steadying breath. “Yeah, I’m fine. I was just … spacing out. I didn’t see you. Any luck?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m gonna write down what I thought of, but I’m pretty sure it’s just bullshit. How about you, are
you going to go up?”

  “I was looking at it from here.”

  “Okay, everyone,” Professor Pierce’s voice cut across the low buzz of conversation. I looked around for the first time in a few minutes. Pierce was staring right at me, a curious expression on his face. Everyone had filtered back to their seats and were busily writing or whispering to a neighbor. “Let’s record our thoughts precisely. I’ll be coming around to see how we’re doing.”

  I started to panic. I could still hear that tiny, faint voice echoing in the recesses of my ears. Should I write down what I’d heard? What if it was right? What did that mean? Maybe I should just make something up, just in case it really was true. I didn’t want anyone knowing what I could do, if I really could do it. Of course, I didn’t even know what “it” was. And why the hell was Pierce staring at me like that? Did he know what had happened? Had I given myself away?

  “Hey, what’s that?” Sam asked. He was staring down at my notebook.

  I followed his eyes to the page. There, beneath my notes about aura memory, was a face. It was the face of a little girl, about six years old, with very long, dark hair, and a gap-toothed smile. Under her face, I had written the words “Lydia” and “doll.” As I stared at the words, I grew aware of a dull aching sensation in my right hand. It was a familiar feeling, the exact feeling I got when I’d taken a particularly long test that required lots of writing.

  I tried to keep my voice casual. “Oh nothing, I was just doodling. I always do that when I’m bored.”

  “Who is that?” he pushed, pointing to the girl’s face.

  “Nobody. Just a face.” I quickly flipped to a clean page. “So what did you come up with?”

  Sam looked like he was going to ask me something and then decided against it. Instead, he tilted his notebook toward me. He had written the word “blue” and then a series of question marks.

  “So, Mr. Lang? Any glimpses of a psychic nature?” Pierce abruptly appeared over Sam’s shoulder. Looking a little embarrassed, Sam showed his paper to Pierce.

  “What made you write the word ‘blue’?” Pierce asked. I noticed his eyes roving to my own page, which I had thankfully covered up. I tried to look mildly interested in Sam’s findings.