Benjamin Bandosz

 
I whipped back around, just in case it had decided to go round another corner to pass through me again. For the rest of my grocery trip my eyes scanned each aisle I passed, searching for that unforgettable, haunting smile. Every time the inexperienced piano player played a wrong note, or if the tuning was too poor to sustain a passable triad or unison, my spine contracted and I did a double take behind me. A number of people asked me if I needed help with something, or if I had wanted to say something to them because I was staring intently trying to distinguish whether they resembled the ghost. After a disorienting forty minutes at the grocery store, I managed to check out and pack the purchases into my bag. I then proceeded to the local liquor store to buy overpriced, domestic beer, hoping it might take some edge off. In reality, I didn’t think I was being haunted, nor did I consider that the bronze paperweight could be channelling energy from another dimension. I was distressed and processing the event, but there was still a tinge of disbelief and hesitation. I didn’t want to believe. There were some other minor encounters, but they were eclipsed by the most uncanny event.

I gave up my job as a clerk. The endless, nauseating commutes, and my dreary administrative work bored me, although it gave me time to read a lot of propaganda, and corresponding philosophies. So I took up a job in the academic circles. It has a different pace, but it attracts similar people to the insurance industry.

Universities are full of ghosts. It’s an old profession, and the campuses have even older buildings. Contracted faculty and graduate students often complain of the dungeon-like carrel spaces with burnt out light bulbs, the smell of asbestos in the air, and resident mice. Coincidentally, grad students’ paleness often resemble ghosts, and they slide in and out of your peripheries with the same effectiveness. I would like to give you brief history of the building in which this haunting happened. After breathlessly explaining my encounter to a friend, he shook his head and explained why it happened in that particular building:

“The Jackman Humanities Building, eh? You know, my old doctor’s office was there. Before that building was leased out by the university, it used to be mostly doctors’ offices and medical facilities. It was a really weird building to me as a kid going in for check-ups; the elevators were all different shapes and sizes, even though they were all next to one another; in the lobby the ceiling was so high and the pillars were obsidian black— and clashed with the green marble floors. My doctor was this hilarious old, Jewish dude. He always lightened my mood and I always left there laughing.”

“Anyway, I’m not surprised you saw a ghost there. Did you read about the first ACT scan of a mummy? It was done a few decades ago, in that building! They scanned Tutankhamun in that building! After I heard that, the weird vibe suddenly made sense. Remember that the guy who discovered Tutankhamun’s tomb was cursed? His dog died the same night that he died, just like it was said in the curse inscribed on the sarcophagus, or whatever. I’m telling you now, even some weird deaths and illnesses happened in that building.”

“And that voice in the elevator…” he paused for a second “It never changed. I remember taking the elevators when I was a kid—the voice creeped me out. And then, after the university leased out and gutted the space and elevators, the voice remained. How is it the same voice if they changed the elevators?! That place is weird. I don’t even like going there to work, or to meet with my course coordinator. I’m not surprised you ran into a ghost there.”

His bewilderment and conviction made me laugh. My friend was right, though, the building’s elevators were filled with a strange air, and they were so unbelievably fast in comparison with any of the other elevators on campus. Their musty green-gold decor, lacquered by low lighting and accented with dim mirrors on all sides, produced an absurd portal to the next floor. Sometimes, it felt like you were about to enter a scene imagined by David Lynch rather than the English Department’s administrative floor.

It was early afternoon on Halloween, and I had just finished one of my seminars on the 7^th floor. In the hall there was a modest bench on which I sat as I made a phone call. I looked in my bag and found the pyramid. After I hung up the phone, there was no one in the hallway. The building seemed to hum through its walls, filling the emptiness. I sighed, and picked up my oversized knapsack. I called the elevator and slouched from the weight of my bag. As I fiddled the bronze paperweight, the elevator shot up in seconds.

When the doors slid open, a pale and familiar face stared at me from within the reflective chamber. The face fluctuated between an expression of peevish surprise and a bashful regret of being caught unawares. My stomach froze, and seemed to move upwards to my chest and outwards to my limbs. A strange stillness overcame my mind, unlike the times before where a distilled anxiety saturated my brain tissues. Before the translucent figure made any motion or sound, I found my voice enunciating a phrase,

“Hey, how’s it going?”

After so many unceremonious and awkward encounters, we had developed some kind of weird familiarity. And so before I knew it, my mouth was uttering a casual greeting, like it was unaffected by the paranormal circumstances. Despite my tempered speech and attitude, my body had seized entirely.

The ghost broke eye contact, gave a veiled smile and started out of the elevator. At the threshold, the ghost whispered, staring at the ground,

“I’m fine, thanks. Bye.”

I stepped out of the way to avoid another embarrassing phasing-through incident. As the ghost passed by, I tried to hold the elevator door open as it began to close—my right hand gripped the edge of the door and it pulled me so that my body turned and I faced the ghost’s backside. It walked straight for the wall in front of it. My hand lost its grip on the paperweight which slipped and fell into the gap between the floor and elevator, echoing as it tumbled down the elevator shaft. The ghost was quickly and timidly shuffling away, as though it was caught doing something it shouldn’t have. I was unsure whether to anticipate another response, or say something else. This ghost had followed me for years, and, finally, we both acknowledged each other after many awkward encounters. These thoughts knotted my mind as I fumbled with the elevator door at its threshold. I stumbled when the door closed stubbornly. I looked up and saw the ghost phasing through the wall.

I debated whether I should poke my head through the nearest door to see if the ghost had taken a seat or was pacing back and forth in distress. But it was evident it didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. I didn’t want to start haunting the ghost.

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