Spirit Legacy (11 page)

But one withering look from me obliterated that idea. Finally, after much grumbling and biting of my fingernails, I had decided: I would take Intro to Journalism, Art History II, Intro to 3D Drawing, Sociological Theory, and Poetry 101. Feeling satisfied, I was about to close the course catalogue when something caught my eye.

“Hey!”

Tia jumped and almost choked on her Skittles. “What is it?”

“There’s a course in parapsychology!” I shouted, my eyes hungrily scanning the page.

Tia scooted closer so that she could read over my shoulder. “You’re kidding! You mean they actually teach that stuff in schools?”

“Apparently. Listen to this! ‘Introduction to Parapsychology gives the student an overview of the field of parapsychology, including exploration and discussion of the phenomena of psychokinesis, extrasensory perception, and theories of
survival of consciousness after death!
’ I don’t believe it! There’s someone right here on campus who can help me!” The weight in my stomach was lifting already, I could feel it.

“Who teaches it?” Tia asked, snatching the catalogue so she could read it for herself. “Professor David Pierce. I wonder if … wait, Jess! It’s a senior seminar class, look.” Tia pointed to the course number, her face falling. I grabbed the catalogue back and felt my happiness extinguish as quickly as it had flared.

“But maybe you could still go talk to him! Even if you can’t take the class, at least you could tell him what’s going on,” Tia suggested, keeping her voice low even though there was no one else in the room.

“No way. I have no idea who this guy is! What am I supposed to do, walk into his office and say, ‘Hi, I’m Jess. I see dead people’? That’s the last thing I need: another professor thinking I’m crazy. One is enough for this semester, don’t you think?”

“But Jess, he
teaches
paranormal psychology! He obviously believes in that sort of thing, why else would he ….”

But I was already shaking my head. “
No,
Tia. I’m not telling anyone about this, not unless I know I can trust them! I’m not going to parade this around like I’m some sort of freakshow!”

Tia’s face blushed pink. “I didn’t say you were a—”

“—I know!” I said, instantly ashamed that I’d snapped at her. “I know you were just trying to help, but I’m already unsure whether I believe myself. I just need some information—something that might help me figure this out. I need to get into that class.”

Tia nodded her understanding and slid off the bed and over to her desk, where she got ready to tackle her biology exam review. “Well,” she said, as she flipped open the enormous textbook, “the only thing to do is go visit Professor Pierce and see if he’ll sign you in. Worst he can say is no.”

I agreed, but I wasn’t about to accept no for an answer, not after everything that I’d seen. I was determined about that, at least.

§

Despite my conviction to get into the parapsychology class, as much as I talked about it for the next two weeks, it still took me until the very last day of finals to get up the nerve to go see the professor.

David Pierce’s office was tucked away in a remote corner of the fourth floor of Wiltshire Hall, the oldest and most imposing of the brick buildings on the sprawling campus. The rumor was that Dr. Pierce had requested to work out of Wiltshire because it was the most likely building on the campus to be haunted, though what process of deduction he had used to reach that conclusion was a complete mystery. It seemed unlikely that a professor hoping to be taken seriously as an academic and a scientist would demand an office based solely on this criterion; after all, the entire science department was housed in that building. But the student body swore up and down that this was how Dr. Pierce came to be holed up in that particular spot.

In fact, there were many stories about ghosts that supposedly resided in Wiltshire, frightening the wits out of wayward students and unsuspecting custodial staff. I had even heard a story on my campus tour earlier that spring, when the overly-perky student tour guide had recounted, in what she obviously thought to be a spooky voice, the tale of a Jesuit monk who haunted the bell tower and performed Gregorian chants on stormy nights. I supposed it was as likely as not that many of these stories had only surfaced because Professor Pierce’s presence there suggested them, but nevertheless, recent events had given them the faint ring of truth—or at least the taint of possibility.

The determination that had carried me out of my dorm and across the length of the campus had faded considerably by the time I reached Wiltshire Hall, and had all but disappeared as I climbed the final flight of stairs. I had convinced myself the night before that it would be very simple. I would just go up there, knock on the door, and ask to be signed in to the class, citing my fervent interest in all things paranormal, and a deeply-held ambition to become a ghost hunter. If that line of bullshit failed, I would simply have to beg and plead. But as I drew nearer and nearer his door, I began to feel that my plan was a feeble one. I didn’t know the first thing about parapsychology; I hadn’t even believed in ghosts until a few weeks ago!

I reached the office door and stood staring mutely at the name “Prof. David E. Pierce, PhD” as though hoping that the letters themselves would give me permission and save me the trouble of having to confront their namesake. Beside the door was a corkboard on which a number of newspaper and magazine clippings were pinned. There was a photocopy of a review of Pierce’s latest book, “Science or Science Fiction? The Paradox of Parapsychology.” Beside that, was an article torn from a magazine, entitled “Parapsychology and Christian Philosophy.” And below that, someone had added a local paper’s profile of a woman who claimed to be a medium. I’d just started reading it in spite of myself when a sudden clearing of a throat from inside the room confirmed that the professor was indeed there. With a deep breath that I couldn’t quite get to fill my lungs, I knocked on the door.

“Come on in,” said a man’s voice. He sounded irritated. Great, just what I needed: to catch him in a bad mood.

I pushed on the door, which opened into a veritable disaster of an office. Every inch of wall space from floor to ceiling was covered in bookshelves, save one very tall, very narrow window that overlooked the courtyard—or at least, it would have if you could have seen out of it; a large dusty plastic ficus plant obscured most of the view. Precariously placed piles of books, papers, and file folders were teetering on every available surface. The place smelled like a cross between a library archive room and an airport smoking lounge. In the corner, nearly hidden by the oversized desk and its abundance of papers, was a very old, very cozy-looking brown leather arm chair in which sat the elusive Professor Pierce.

“Can I help you?” he asked, looking up from the book he was reading.

My immediate impression of David Pierce was that he would look more at home in the back of a VW van with a joint hanging out of his mouth than he did in this office. His hair was long and black, pulled into a ponytail even longer than mine. His face was overgrown with a poorly trimmed beard and mustache. He wore a threadbare purple Henley, ripped blue jeans, and an ancient pair of brown Doc Martens. The only aspect of his appearance that could be considered a nod to academia was a pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched tentatively on his nose, as if unsure whether they really belonged there. His eyes were blue and very inquisitive, and they bore into mine like drills as he waited for my response. I was instantly intimidated in spite of myself.

“Um, hi, Dr. Pierce. My name is Jess Ballard. I’m a freshman.” I didn’t know why I included this last bit of information—maybe I thought my timid manner needed some sort of excusing.

“Ah, shit. Am I your advisor? Do we have an appointment to pick your classes or something?” Dr. Pierce started to get up from his chair.

“No, my advisor is Professor Holden, Art History,” I answered.

“Oh.” Pierce plopped back down in the seat, but did not pick up his book. “So, what do you want?”

His bluntness did nothing to help my courage. “I was hoping you could help me, actually. I saw that you teach a class in parapsychology, and—”

“—And you thought I’d be kind enough to sign you in even though you aren’t a senior and you haven’t taken any of the pre-recs,” Pierce finished.

I stopped short. It sounded pretty ludicrous when he put it that way. “Uh … yeah, actually, that’s pretty much it.”

Pierce made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a snort. “Ballard, is it?”

I nodded.

“Ballard, do you know what page I’m on in that book right there?”

“I … what?”

“I asked if you know what page I’m on in that book I was reading when you came in.”

I felt thoroughly confused. Was he testing my psychic abilities or something? “I have no idea.”

“It’s the same page I’ve been on since eight o’clock this morning. That was three hours ago.”

“Okay.”

“And would you like to know why I’ve been on the same page for three hours?” Pierce asked conversationally, crossing one leg over the other.

“Sure.”

“Because you are about the hundredth lower classman who has made the trip all the way up here to try to get into my class. A class that
specifically
states it’s only for seniors and which has been full since last spring anyway.” Pierce stopped as though to gauge the effect of these words on me.

“I … I’m sorry,” I faltered, back-pedaling. “I didn’t realize the class was so hard to get into.”

“Well, it is. This happens every year. It’s the most popular class in the whole goddamn college. Lucky me.”

I could feel my hope slipping away. I tried again. “Professor, are you sure there’s no way to get into the class? I mean, can’t you make an exception? I’m … um, I’m really interested in parapsychology.” It sounded lame before it even came out of my mouth, and I knew it.

“Do you know why so many kids want to take this class, Ballard? They think it’s a joke. A fucking blow-off course, you get me? They think it’s gonna be a barrel of laughs, sitting around telling stories about Indian burial grounds under their backyards or their dead grandmothers leaving them messages on bathroom mirrors.”

I was starting to get flustered now, and not just because a professor was swearing at me like a sailor. This wasn’t going well. “I don’t think it’s a blow-off—”

“—Well, quite frankly, Ballard, you don’t sound any different than any of the other kids who’ve come up here looking to get signed in. Why should I make an exception for you and not any of them?” He seemed to think it was a rhetorical question and, by extension, that the conversation was over. He returned to his book with a smug expression.

I could feel my temper boiling just below the surface. After months of confusion and terror, after my mother and Evan, the dreams and the voices, I was at my wits’ end. But in spite of all of that, I just couldn’t bring myself to tell this man the real reason I was there. If he wasn’t going to believe that I wanted to be in the class for the usual reasons, he’d probably laugh right in my face at the real reason. I tried to keep my voice even so that I wouldn’t betray how close I was to completely losing it. But I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. “You know what, forget it. I’ll find someone else to help me. Enjoy your book.” I turned to leave.

My hand was on the doorknob when Pierce suddenly spoke. “What do you mean, ‘someone to help you’?”

I whirled around, all pretense gone. “What do you care? I’m just another presumptuous freshman, right?”

“Aren’t you?” he asked, with the first flicker of real interest.

“No! I don’t give a shit about an ‘easy A’ or whatever lame reason people usually take your class. If you knew the first thing about me, you’d know I don’t need a pity grade to boost my GPA.”

“So, then why do you want to be there? And don’t feed me that line about being interested in parapsychology.” Pierce had gotten up from his chair. He was eyeing me shrewdly, and seemed completely unfazed by my profanity.

“Of course I don’t want to be a goddamn parapsychologist! I thought all this paranormal stuff was bullshit until ….” I didn’t know how to continue without telling him more than I wanted to. Luckily, there seemed to be no need.

“Until something happened to change your mind,” he finished for me, giving me an appraising look. It was like being x-rayed.

“Yes.”

Several seconds passed. Pierce wasn’t signing me in, but he also wasn’t writing me off. I cooled off enough in the intervening moments to recognize that this was an opportunity. He was intrigued, I could tell. If I played this carefully, if I didn’t blow it, this might just work out. I decided to press my luck and try again, but I didn’t want to give him too much information; I wasn’t sure that I wanted to trust him with that yet. When I spoke again, I kept my voice calm. “Dr. Pierce, I’m sure that there are lots of kids who take your class for the wrong reasons, and that sucks. But would you be willing to make an exception for someone who needed to take it for the right reasons? I think your class might be the only way for me to understand what happened to me.” I hesitated and then added, “What’s still happening to me.”

She shoots, she scores. He was examining me now like I was some interesting new specimen. Perhaps it was the guarded manner in which I spoke, but he didn’t press me for any more details, for which I was both surprised and grateful. There seemed to be an internal struggle going on between his desire to keep presumptuous freshman from his ranks and his eagerness to gain what could potentially be a new case study.

After a moment that felt like an hour, he spoke. “I could let you audit the class. You wouldn’t get any credit for it.” He kept his eyes trained on my face.

Relief flooded me. “Thank you, Professor. I don’t need the credit, just the information.”

It was as though I passed some sort of test. Pierce continued to look at me inquisitively as he held his hand out for my registration form. I waited quietly while he fished a pen from behind his ear and scrawled his initials on the crumpled paper. Expressing my thanks again, I left the room at a jog, before he had a chance to ask me anything else.