GHOST WITCH

Lucas: Being a staff writer here at Third Eye has certainly proven to be a worthwhile career. The pursuit of the unexplainable has given this reporter an amazing variety of experiences. Most far beyond the expectations of any journalistic foray into the mundane events covered by ordinary newspapers. Investigating the occult has, however, caused me to constantly answer the same question at every social function I attend: Why do you choose to do this?

     In the past, I have gladly related my reasons, which date back to 1972. I was a Freshman attending Morris College located in Irish Grove. The school is a small Liberal Arts institution of a very good reputation. It was there that I had my first brush with the paranormal.

     Arriving in Irish Grove for the Fall Semester, I was ecstatic to see that I would indeed get to take all the classes I had hoped to enroll in. I hoped to major in biology and courses in that field were very popular at the time. I also had the good fortune to receive my financial aid, and felt certain that Morris College would be the perfect environment to ease into a life of academic pursuit. Sadly, a major problem arose.

     My dormitory application had somehow gotten hung up in the US Postal Service and had arrived to late to be considered. After much argumentation at Student Services, they found me a room in Larkin Hall, although that room would not be available until the Spring Semester. Until then, I was informed, I would have to seek housing off-campus. Dismayed, but undaunted, I picked up the local classifieds to hunt for my temporary digs. While searching for something livable (but cheap) I spied this mysterious item:

     Single, small cottage for rent. 12x12 ft. main room.

     Refrigerator. Stove. Ideal for one person. Close to Morris.

     Call landlord at 606-7882.

     (WARNING: Cottage comes with ghost.)

     At the time, I did not as yet see myself as a paranormal investigator, but rather a Nobel Prize winning biologist. I have always had enormous curiosity, having been known to spend hours watching an ant hill or sit silently in the woods at midnight to espy the activities of a hoot owl. The final line of the ad did intrigue me, but more as an amusing gimmick than an opportunity to interact with the unnatural. I decided that the small cottage would be my first stop in my search for a domicile.

     I contacted the landlord and he informed me the address of the place was 600 Darymple Lane, three blocks from the Biology Department. I was thrilled not only by the location, but by the fact that it had the astonishingly low rent of only $50.00 a month! I hesitated only out of my usual paranoia for things that sound too good to be true. I told Mr. Dorn, the landlord, that I would like to see the place. We agreed to meet at 7:00 pm.

     Upon arrival, I was delighted to find the place very charming and beautifully poised atop a small grassy knoll. It was made of sturdy oak and surrounded by a classic English-style garden. The inside was every bit as homey, and furnished with antiques desk and chair, an old rocker, and a beautiful 19th century bed. Along with the advertised kitchen appliances there was a shower stall and toilet. It was a student's dream. I turned to Mr. Dorn with a wide smile and told him I would take it.

     "Now, you do know why the rent's so cheap, don' cha?" he asked.

     It took a moment to recall the advertisement, but as it came back to me I did feel a strange chilliness. "Cottage comes with ghost." I replied.

     "That's right. A ghost. You don't believe in them, though, do ya?" he queried.

     "Well, I do admit to a certain amount of cynicism. I am, well, a person given to the scientific method of research. If I can't study it, that is to say, if there is no proof to consider, only hearsay and conjecture, then....how can you...or anyone for that matter....say whether they do or do not...."

     "Of course." said Mr. Dorn as he bent toward the window to catch the last waning rays of sunlight passing through the window. Then he turned to me and said simply, "If you want it, you can take it tonight. You can move right in if you got the money. Electricity and water are already hooked up. I'll pay all that, just remember what I said. If you move out early, there's no return of the rent. Ain't no lease. Just a handshake and spit."

     I considered Mr. Dorn either an eccentric or a Wisenheimer who enjoyed scaring the behoozits out of young renters. In any case, I felt ready for any challenge. I accepted the terms and settled in.

     The first few weeks went without a hitch. My new home was perfect. Close enough to campus to get to classes and far enough from the dorms and bars to concentrate on my studies. "Heck," I thought, "with a place like this, why move into the dorms at all?" I enjoyed cooking my own meals and saw the potential rewards of bringing home a late night guest to share the comforts of my wonderfully comfortable antique bed.

     One of my favorite treats in those days was my specially prepared roast beef sandwich. Pickle relish, Swiss cheese, Mayo, and lettuce on top of a mound of roast beef. I meticulously assembled the sandwich each morning before I went to class, cutting it into four sections for easier comestibility, and wrapped it in wax paper to ensure its freshness. During my seventh week I discovered that when I awoke my sandwich had already been made, exactly to my specifications, and wrapped in the wax paper! It sat, challenging all sense and sensibility in the place where I always prepared it, and yet I had not done it! I was very shocked, and assumed that one of my friends must be doing it as a prank. After all, I had foolishly told them all about the haunting as I bragged about the cheapness of my rent. They all denied doing it, but each said they wished they had thought of the joke. I wondered if old Mr. Dorn weren't attempting to substantiate his claim of ghosts, though I couldn't imagine his motives for such a story.

     I made certain each night that I was alone and that the doors and windows were bolted. Each day the sandwich would assimilate. I grew weary of the joke and angry at the perpetrator. I attempted many times to wait up and catch the trouble-maker responsible, but always fell asleep and awoke with a headache and a sandwich. Finally I decided to ignore the phenomenon, although I continued to eat the sandwiches. Then the dreams started.

     All young men have nocturnal emissions. This is a biological fact of life. I took my own to be a reflection of a neglected social life, at least at first. The frequency with which they occurred and the sameness of the fantasy as it repeated itself night after night did, however, begin to strike me as unusual. A woman of long, dark hair and sweet, gentle face had begun to nightly intruder herself on my psyche. As we joined in the dream state, I had the sensation of moving through time itself. The modern appliances and electric lights faded away around us and the furnishings took on the look they must have had when the cottage was new, back in the early 1800s.

     The sexual dreaming grew nightly more wild and anarchic, the room spinning and the dark lady of my mind laughing with fiendish delight as she brought me to climax. Each morning the blankets would be in knots, furniture askew, and as always....my sandwich prepared.

     Where the sandwich had been an amusing topic of conversation among my peers, this new twist was not something I could discuss with anyone. I put it down to stress and the coming of final exams, but I knew this explanation was inadequate. I was becoming weaker, and had begun to lose all interest in my studies. Life itself was becoming uninteresting. I was finding that simply leaving my bed was an effort of monumental will. I was exhausted, and slept more hours of the day than I spent awake. Whenever I closed my eyes, the dream, the woman, returned. Each time more realistic and maddening than the last.

     At last, tearing myself from my blankets and out of the house into the blinding light of day, I forced myself into the now unfamiliar library to examine their special collections. Mining through microfiche of old newspapers from the 1800's, I made an incredible discovery. My wonderful home was once owned by a woman named Beatrice Hood. In July of 1886, she died there in a fire, though this was never proven, widely rumored to have been arson. She had been branded a witch by her neighbors, who accused her of nightly orgies with the county's "occult elite".

     The cottage was restored and eventually bought by Frank and Dory Dorn. There were intermittent references dating back to just after the fire of the "Old Hood Cottage" being unlivable because of the persistent haunting by the murdered witch.

     There is no thrilling conclusion to this tale. I moved into the dorm when the Spring Semester arrived. I continued in biology and graduated with honors. That little cottage never ceased to occupy my thoughts while at Morris, and they still do. And that is the reason I study the paranormal...because I was first studied by it.