Possessions of the Dead

Chapter 1 Halfway through the second semester of the year, when I should have been worried about term papers and research, all I could focus on were hands. I’d been dumped by my boyfriend of half a year because I was too “robotic,” as well as several other less-flattering descriptors. After complaining to my roommate, Larry, in our apartment near campus how horrible my ex, Carter, was, Larry talked me into taking an art class to prove that I was fun and spontaneous. After thoroughly researching all available classes and running scenarios of how they’d fit into my schedule, I signed up for the first art class I’d taken since freshman year at Small Town High. Unsurprisingly, I was the only psychology major in the whole class. I was probably the only psych major the teacher had ever met. She was a former hippy with braids in her hair who talked about feelings a lot and mentioned some marches that accomplished nothing besides giving her a sense of belonging. We started out drawing fruit delicately arranged in bowls (I’m fairly certain the hippy got to class an hour ahead of time to “set the scene”), learning about shadows and perspectives, and then graduated to body parts. I excelled at feet and managed ears all right, but then came hands. The weird thing about hands is how uniquely alien they seem once you stare at them for any length of time. It’s not like I snorted ecstasy or smoked pot and got lost in my head, flying around some delusional dream in which I finally understood the meaning of reality, only to wake up covered in vomit; I just began to notice the oddities for the first time. The thumb juts out to one side. Three fingers shoot straight ahead, basically on the same plane. Then there’s the pinky, situated lower than the fingers and angled slightly. And don’t forget the random lines on your palm that mall psychics claim actually mean something. It was a Thursday afternoon and deadlines for our midterm portfolios were fast approaching. I had to demonstrate a mastery of capturing hands on half a dozen sheets of thin paper even though I’d barely been able to sketch eyes. I shuddered to think about the final project, which would involve self-portraits. I’ve had caricatures done at carnivals and always marveled at the way the artists captured my toothy grin and wavy blond hair. I wondered if I could find any of those and copy them. Professor Hippydippy would marvel at my unique view of life, clueless that I’d Xeroxed some starving artist’s work. After my art class finished, and I tried not to look at the hands of everyone in the college’s corridors, I heard my cell phone ding, signaling an incoming email. I pulled it out of my pocket, noticing the angles of my hand, and quickly read the email from Professor Stanley: Alex, I have office hours from three to five today. Come see me as soon as you can. Just as my art course wasn’t as simple as I’d thought it would be, Professor Stanley wasn’t the crackpot I’d expected. I took his class, Psychoses of the Paranormal, last year, figuring it would be good for a few laughs. Get some easy credits and laugh at the “academic.” Besides, there were so many psych courses I needed and it fit my schedule. If I took Abnormal Psych in the Media, then I would have had to wake up two hours earlier every Tuesday and Thursday. No thanks. Professor Stanley turned out to be a dark-haired man (except the few strands of silver that occasionally caught the light, not that I noticed such things) in his early forties who always brought a huge mug of coffee to class. I excelled in the course, which examined psychological aspects of people claiming to have experienced various supernatural phenomena. The class wasn’t a joke after all, and I found parts of it rather thrilling. The professor was the odd sort who loved disproving paranormal claims even though he firmly believed in the possibility of the unexplainable. I aced the class and ended up talking with the professor whenever I saw him around the psych department, which happened frequently since I worked random administrative shifts for one of the other teachers. Since I’m not one of those “hey, Mom and Dad, the college needs another p*****t” students and had to work my way through school, I took full advantage of the school’s work study program. It was at times a bit like indentured servitude, only without the rape and beatings. I hurried out of the art building and made my way to the psych offices, eager to hear what Professor Stanley had to tell me. He’d mentioned he might want to use a Teacher’s Aid to lighten his teaching load some next semester since he wanted to work on a new book (he was from the “publish or perish” school of thought, which seemed barbaric to me, but I had no desire to write about psychology, only practice it). Could he be telling me I got the TA job? I tried not to get too excited at the prospect of easy, free college credits. After nodding to the office secretary, I found Professor Stanley’s door open. He stood at his desk, carefully placing books in a cardboard box. Could he have been fired? Maybe he was inappropriate with a student. He never flirted with me. What’s so wrong with me that a man twice my age won’t try to seduce me? There goes the cushy TA gig. “Hi, Professor.” He looked up with an eager smile, signaling he hadn’t been fired. Nothing to be worried about then. You’ve still got it. “Alex, that was quick.” “I just got out of class.” “And an ex told me I had horrible timing.” The professor smirked at some memory he didn’t share before continuing. “I just heard from a colleague in Washington state. A lawyer claims he was attacked by a ghost.” “That’s absurd.” “Isn’t it just? Still, it piques my curiosity. He is in the hospital, after all, so something happened. Anyway, I’m catching a red eye and going to spend the weekend seeing what I can see, as it were. I should be back late Sunday so I won’t miss my Monday classes.” “You won’t be disappointed when you get there and find some poor delusional guy raving about spooks?” I couldn’t help but ask. “It’s what I’m expecting. Either way, the patient needs help.” He closed his cardboard box and sighed. “Anyway, as exciting as all of this is, I need someone to cover my Psychoses of the Paranormal class tonight. I cancelled everything for tomorrow, but I’d rather not this one. I had planned to give the students time to talk to me about their midterm papers. Since you did so well with yours, I was hoping you could take roll, answer any questions, and give them some pointers. Plus, it’ll give you a chance to get your feet wet, TA-wise.” The position’s as good as mine. “I’m your man.”