Ghosts at Drayson Schoolhouse Read online

  Mike was lying on a folded pillow on his bed, his head hiked up, listening to some type of metal music. The tinny chorus chirped through his iPhone headset as he pulled it off and tossed it on the bed.

  “I can’t change the appointment; the woman is expecting me.”

  “Then you should’ve checked with me first.”

  Mike stood up, walked over to his desk and checked tomorrow’s schedule. He was already out for the summer after completing his junior year last week. He also planned to start college a year early.

  “I have an interview at two. It’s twenty some minutes away. I’ll have to meet you at the school.”

  “Great,” I said, as I started to give him directions.

  “Just give me the address and I’ll plug it into my GPS.”

  I had two exams on Tuesday—one at 9:00 a.m., and the other 1:00 p.m. I turned in my final Calculus exam at 2:39 p.m., handing it to my professor. He nodded and mouthed a silent “thank you” without smiling. I took one last look at the small classroom of students, which was now about half full. Most were busy writing down figures and crunching their calculators. One bonehead was staring at the wall—his black hair askew—as if he’d yanked on every hair twice during the ordeal. He’d probably be taking the same exam a year from now.

  It was a relief being done with Calculus. I had a high B average and felt I’d done well on the exam. I took the ten minute stroll to my Jeep Cherokee, enjoying the balmy breeze of the seventy-five degree afternoon. Birds chirped in the boughs of nearby trees as sprinklers hissed over the verdant grounds.

  Traffic was heavy as I made my way down Clifton Avenue, past Hughes High School and down McMillan. Instead of taking the viaduct to the west side of town, I exited onto 75 South. It took me fifty minutes to get to the Drayson Schoolhouse. Mike called at quarter to four and said he couldn’t make it. His car broke down. Figures.

  The schoolhouse was perched on a steep hill, marked by two gravel pathways that bordered the edifice on opposite ends. Both pathways converged in front of the school, forming a wide “U” for entering and exiting. The incline was no less than fifty degrees.

  My engine chuffed as I drove up the hill, curved to the left and parked in one of only a dozen parking spaces. The vehicle was ten years old and had seen better days. I was in desperate need of a tune-up.

  A white Oldsmobile and green Impala were parked ten yards down, the only other vehicles in the front lot. Three buses sat to the right of the school in a square graveled lot, where weeds sprouted waist-high in the center. The buses probably serviced the entire student body.

  I got out of my Jeep and studied the vast expanse of the schoolhouse, which only had one main floor. But the steep arches of the eaves and lofty gables above the brick front gave the building the appearance of a two-story.

  I made my way up the fifteen concrete steps and hit the buzzer.

  “Yeah,” the guard squawked over the intercom box.

  “It’s Dylan McCauliffe,” I said. Static poured through the speaker. “Joyce Fletcher is expecting me.” The static loudened, and then speaker popped. I jumped back, thinking, for a second, I’d been shot.

  “Oh, you’re the ghost hunter.”

  “Paranormal investigator,” I said.”

  “Whatever. Just tug on the door when I buzz you.”

  The large wooden and double glass doors buzzed. I grabbed for the handle but the door stopped buzzing. I pressed the button again.

  “You have to be a little quicker there, Hoss,” the guard said.

  This time, I opened the door before the buzzing ceased and stepped inside the school. The doors screeched as they closed behind me, echoing down the long hallway.

  A tall, hefty man of forty-five approached. His stomach protruded beneath his gray shirt, where a white T-shirt peeked out in place of a detached button.

  “Here, sign this,” he said, handing me a clipboard with a piece of paper and pen attached. His voice was gruff but he appeared harmless. I signed in and handed the clipboard back to the man.

  “Office is down there on the left.” He pointed before entering a door near the front of the school and disappeared from view.

  A coolness filled the musty air as I walked down the hall. My shoes clopped and echoed against the drab tiles. The lights were dimmed but I spotted the office a third of the way down. A white triangular sign with red Office lettering jutted from the wall near the top of the door. Just before I opened it, I heard a faint giggle from one of the adjoining hallways. It almost seemed to mock me.

  “Mr. McCauliffe,” said the woman, as she looked up at me from behind a small paneled counter. She looked about fifty with gray hair and tiny black-framed glasses. She couldn’t have been more than five-feet tall.

  “Yes,” I said, as I folded my hands and placed my elbows on the faded green counter surface. Portions of it had chipped away over the years, and multitudes of scratches marred its surface.

  “Why you’re just a kid,” she said—mouth opened in amazement. She wore a green dress with a white sweater, which seemed a bit heavy for June.

  “I’m seventeen and a freshman at the University of Cincinnati,” I said, lifting my elbows off the counter and standing erect, as if the added height would increase my credibility. “But I’ve been doing investigations since I was twelve. My dad’s a noted demonologist in the area.”

  “Great. Will he be helping?” she said, lowering her glasses and eying me from hair to midsection.

  “Only if we need him.”

  “Hmmmmm.” She cleared her throat and sighed. “Let me get my notes and we can meet over there at the table.” She pointed to an old round wooden table near the principal’s office. Even the chairs appeared ancient.

  The woman waved her hand and offered me a seat.

  “It’s Ms. Fletcher, correct?” I said, as I opened my notebook.

  “Call me . . . Joyce,” she said, hesitating for a second, as if my youth didn’t warrant the first-name basis.

  “Okay, Joyce, tell me what’s been going on.”

  The woman took a deep breath and repositioned her glasses, as she read over the list on her yellow legal pad. It seemed more like a long essay than a list of hauntings.

  “A little bit of everything, I’m afraid.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  “Lights go off and on by themselves, things go missing. And some people have seen spirits.”

  “Have you seen any apparitions, Joyce?” She looked around the room, though nobody else was present. She then gazed into my eyes; they looked red and tired as if she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in months.

  “Yes, I have.” She cleared her throat. “This may sound crazy but I’ve seen several children after hours. I’ve also seen a large man with a beard.”

  “Are these people dressed in modern clothes or more old-fashioned?”

  “The latter.” Joyce suddenly pushed her chair back, stood and starting pacing around her side of the table. “I know, it sounds crazy, but I’m a rational person. I go to church regularly and consider myself a Christian.”

  “It’s okay, Joyce,” I said, attempting to calm her down, using her first name to gain rapport. I motioned for her to have a seat, as she had me do moments earlier, and seemed to gain some authority with the gesture.

  “Okay. I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that things seem to be getting worse. Some parents want to yank their kids out of the school. We’ve barely got the funds to keep the school open. I’m sorry.” She took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. She then placed them back on her nose. She lowered her chin and eyed me above the rim of her spectacles.

  “It’s okay. I’m here to help. And these things happen more than you think.”

  “You really think you can help?”

  “Yes, I do. We’re young—but know what we’re doing. My sister Sarah is thirteen, but she’s well-known for her psychic abilities. Journalists have written articles about her. My brother Mike is fifteen and th
e historian of our team. He will research everything about your school, including anything Sarah picks up from her walkthrough. That way we can better identify who some of these people are.”

  “How do you operate? And how much will it cost?” She clenched her pen, flipped the page of her legal pad and got set to write down a dollar figure.

  Just then, all the lights in the office flickered several times and stopped. Joyce’s throat churned as she gazed around the office. The pen shook in her hand. She jumped up from her seat.

  “That’s what I’m talking about. What in tarnation is causing this?”

  “Spirits often use electrical energy to communicate . . . or even scare people.” The lights continued blinking off and on, then stopped. “And then it could just be a glitch with the electricity . . . or even an accident nearby.”

  “No. This happens several times a day. I’m so frightened, I don’t want to be in this school alone anymore.”

  “You’re alone?”

  “Yes, the guard just left after you entered the office. I saw it on the monitor on my desk. Why?”

  “Nothing.” I was about to mention the laughter but thought better of it. This woman was going to have a coronary as it was. “Let’s get back to your question.”

  “What was it? I can’t even remember.” She took a deep breath, pursed her lips and let it out slowly. She then sat back down, grabbed her pen and started tapping it on the thumbnail of her left hand.

  “You wanted to know about our procedures . . . and the cost.”

  “Oh, yeah. We’re on a tight budget.”

  “That’s all right. We usually operate on a voluntary basis. You can donate once we complete our investigation. But that’s up to you.”

  “Okay. So, what do we do?”

  I switched positions in the seat. The hard wood was hurting my behind, and the backs of my legs were falling asleep.

  “We’ll start with an investigation of the school, which we usually conduct after ten or eleven o’clock at night . . . and usually until dawn. This will enable us to use our equipment in the dark.” Nighttime was also when most spiritual activity occurred, especially between twelve and three a.m.

  “What kind of equipment?” said Joyce, as she repositioned her pen to take notes. Her hand was still trembling a bit.

  “Our equipment is highly sophisticated. We have REM-Pods that light up and beep when spirits are near, voice recorders, cameras that we’ll disperse throughout the building . . . infrared or night vision attachments, EMF detectors that measure electromagnetic frequencies and spectrometers, which measure various light spectrums. Ghosts often appear in lower light frequencies that humans can’t detect.”

  “Sounds very technical.”

  “It is, but that’s my specialty.”

  “So, what’s the next step?”

  “Check with your principal and decide on a night you’d like us to investigate. I’m free after Thursday.”

  “This is between you and the school, right?”

  “Of course. No one will know about the investigation.”

  We finished discussing several other incidents that happened at the school, including faucets turning on and off by themselves and people reportedly getting pushed. The guy that got knocked from the latter had broken his leg. Joyce kept a log of the happenings, which seemed more frequent in recent weeks.

  “Have you done any remodeling lately?” I asked, already aware that they had.

  “Yes. We’re adding a computer room in back of the school. We’ve also knocked some walls down to enlarge classrooms and corridors. Why do you ask?”

  “That kind of activity can upset the spirits for various reasons.”

  “Oh. That’s interesting. Why, may I ask?”

  “Because you can disturb their hiding places or hangouts.”

  I asked Joyce about the history of the school, including other construction projects that had occurred over the years. The school seemed rather large to be called a schoolhouse. She apprised me of a couple other times the school was remodeled during the past century, and mentioned several books about the school at the local library.

  “If I had any of the books on hand, I’d let you borrow them. But I don’t.”

  “Not a problem. We’ll get that information from the library if we need to.”

  We finished our meeting just after five. I had no sooner opened the door, hearing the latch hitch behind me, when a cool draft wafted down the hall and brushed against my arm and cheek. Some male voice then said, “Leave . . . Now!”

  I ran down the hall, which awakened my sleepy thighs in a hurry, and rammed into the crash bar of the front door. I respired heavily as I hustled down the front steps and to my car. My heart was thumping as I tried to catch my breath. I didn’t even look back at the school as I started the engine of my Cherokee and drove away. This investigation was going to be intense.

  CHAPTER 3

  Joyce checked with the principal and we all agreed to a Sunday night investigation. That is—except for Sarah. I hadn’t told her about it because she was so stubborn. No, actually, she was a downright brat!

  It was Friday around five when I saw her in the kitchen. I had just gotten back from job hunting. Had a few promising leads—one at the local Longhorn’s as a waiter.

  Sarah was standing beside mom watching skinned potatoes boil in a pot on the stove. A roast was in the oven, indicating we were having stew.

  “Sarah, do you have a minute?”

  “What for?” she said, as she turned and eyed me, crossing her arms in front of her blue sleeveless top. She wore white shorts and blue tennis shoes.

  “Just come out in the great room a minute,” I said; she hesitated a moment, then rolled her eyes.

  “If this has something to do with ghosts, I don’t want to hear about it,” my mom shouted—more in a kidding way.

  “What do you want?” Sarah kept her arms crossed and eyed me with her big brown eyes—her shoulder-length light brown hair wrapped in a ponytail.

  “Mike and I have an investigation Sunday night and we need your help.”

  “I knew it,” she said. “I don’t know why you two always wait until the last minute to tell me.”

  “Because you’re stubborn,” I said.

  “Am not.”

  “It’s at the Drayson Schoolhouse.”

  She dropped her arms and shook her head. “Drayson Schoolhouse. I’ve been there and never sensed anything.” I looked through the front window and saw the paper girl pass by. She’d just delivered the evening Press.

  “When?”

  “A few years ago. Mom dropped off some groceries for the underprivileged kids that go there.”

  “You went inside?”

  “No, I just waited in the car.”

  “Then you haven’t really been there.”

  “I was close enough to sense something—and I didn’t.”

  I took a deep breath and sighed. “Will you help us? I’ve already agreed to meet the secretary of the school at nine on Sunday night. That way we have plenty of time to set up for the investigation.” I didn’t tell her about my experience Tuesday. She would find out soon enough.

  “I don’t know.”

  I pleaded with Sarah for another five minutes. “I may have plans,” she finally said.

  “Like what?”

  “I might go to a movie with Hannah.” She eyed me, then looked down.

  “On a Sunday night?”

  Hannah was Sarah’s best friend, but I knew she didn’t have plans to go to any movie. She was just stalling and making excuses—the same tactics she always used. She was sensing something and didn’t want to tell me.

  Sometimes Sarah hesitated because spirits visited her in advance. They somehow knew she was coming, even days before we visited a location. This time her excuse was a bit ridiculous. God, she was a pain. But she’d have to go with us now, or she wouldn’t get any rest. The ghosts would drive her nuts.

  Just then, Sarah gazed over
in the corner of the room near the television stand. She stared at something for several seconds. Her throat churned and her eyes widened.

  “Okay, I’ll go. But next time, let me know in advance.” She looked at me, then back toward the television stand.

  “It’s two days’ notice,” I said, shaking my head. “Besides, you’re thirteen. What else could be so pressing?”

  “Whatever.” She stuck her tongue out at me in jest. She then sashayed back into the kitchen. I heard her ask mom if she could help with supper, just before I headed upstairs to check my emails. I hadn’t received anything new related to ghosts.

  I grabbed a white legal pad from my desk drawer and made a list of all the equipment I’d need for the investigation. I’d have to make sure the REM-Pods had fresh batteries. Though I hadn’t walked the school hallways in advance, for obvious reasons, I estimated that we’d need at least twenty of them. I would also take an extra night vision camera in case the other one malfunctioned. I owned three of them—two of which sat atop night vision goggles. I’d use the large one as my spare. I’d need extra batteries because spirits often messed with the equipment.

  I’d spent thousands of dollars on my equipment over the years, which was constantly being upgraded by engineers. Every time you turned around someone was inventing a new device. Engineer Gary Galke made some great instruments for ghost hunts. He had created the Mel Meter for detecting spiritual energy, which was a magnetic energy and temperature detector. Gary created several versions of it. He’d designed the equipment to communicate with his late seventeen year-old daughter Melissa, who had died tragically in a car wreck in 2004.

  I’d made one of the recording devices several years ago, but had purchased all of the others. I just didn’t have time to construct my own devices anymore with my hectic schedule.

  “Dylan.”

  Sarah had actually knocked this time before entering my room, though it was already ajar.

  “Yeah,” I said, as I jotted down a few other essential items on my note pad.

  “Dinner’s ready.”