The Jersey Devil You Know

After all this time, my co-workers know to keep an eye out for paranormal stuff for me. They bring me ghost stories, articles about the Yeti, and reports of UFOs. It's one of the reasons my shift was weirder than yours yesterday. (No matter when you are reading this, my shift was weirder than yours yesterday.)
"Before I process these, would you like to look at them?" Tracey asked me while I was on desk.
She was holding two books about the paranormal in Pennsylvania. That's another perk of my job; if you work at the public library, you get to see all the good books as they come in. I'd highly recommend being the paranormal investigator of the local library, except I think I'm the only one of those.
"Oh, sure, thanks!" I said. "These look good." I sat down and began paging through them.
Five minutes later, I was back by her desk, showing her a photo of the Van Sant covered bridge in New Hope. "This was my honeymoon."
I went back to the desk, and read some more. In one of the books, I found a few paragraphs about Jersey Devil sightings in 1909, which was something I was familiar with. I walked back to Tracey's desk.
"This book has some stuff about the Jersey Devil sightings of 1909."
"Didn't we used to be a library?"
"I was asked to look into the history of the Texas Restaurant, but I haven't been making any progress. It was started by two Greek guys in 1918, and originally called 'Texas Hot Wieners,' but I can't find the opening date. There's nothing in the newspapers that I can see. Sometimes when I get desperate I search online, but there's no way in hell I'm going to do a Google search for Texas Hot Wieners."
Tracey nodded, and made a gesture. Go on.
"The Jersey Devil has been around for like three hundred years, a flying creature from New Jersey. In 1909, there were some sightings, and this monster panic was everywhere. The thing was sighted in Lock Haven---I wrote a column on it a while ago. It was around this time of year; first a night watchman at the paper factory up in my neighborhood claimed to have seen the Jersey Devil. Then a few days later, a guy on Grove Street reported seeing the Jersey Devil on his roof. He propped a ladder up and let people look at the hoofprints in the snow. The house still stands; I've pointed it out on tours."
"So now you're looking after the Jersey Devil."
"I am."
"Well, good luck."
"This thing visited Lock Haven. This proves that even the Jersey Devil prefers Lock Haven to New Jersey every once in a while."

The next afternoon, I worked for a while on programs, just so I could say I'd been productive. Then I started in on the Jersey Devil.
I got on the microfilm and found the 1909 articles. I was printing them out as Sue walked by.
"Working on an article, Lou?"
"Chasing the Jersey Devil."
"Oh. You able to make a run to the post office for me later?"
"Sure."
On January 30, 1909, a night watchman at the paper mill named E.W. Rogers saw the Jersey Devil flying over the building. Two days later, Charles Poorman, a resident of the second floor of a Grove Street house, heard something on his roof and found hoof prints in the snow.
I took another look at the book Tracey had loaned me. It said that a man named Norman Jefferies confessed in 1929 to having faked some of the 1909 Jersey Devil sightings with a costume to build up interest in his museum.
Jefferies, huh?
There was a Jefferies family who'd been early settlers of Lock Haven. James Jefferies III was a retired pirate from Chester County who'd built a house that still stood Bald Eagle Street. His son had grown up to become the mayor. I pulled the 1909 city directory and looked up the name.
Former mayor James Jefferies IV had still been living in the house with his wife Elizabeth in 1909. There was no mention of a Norman.
But if he was just visiting....
I got out the 1906 Sanborn map, the closest I could get to 1909. Laying it out on the table in the PA Room, I traced the Jefferies house to the Grove Street House. They weren't too far apart, and in 1909, Henderson Street had run all the way through. It would have been a reasonably short walk from one to the other.
"It wouldn't have taken much time at all," I told Tracey at her desk. "Norman Jefferies could have walked to the house pretty quickly. Now, the other sighting was a night watchman who claimed to have seen it flying, but he bought his own business just two years later, so maybe there was a payoff there."
"Oh, really? That's interesting."
"Yeah, I really should probably get a hobby or something."
Tracey laughed. "No, it's kind of neat."
"Well, I wouldn't mind capturing the Jersey Devil, either. But I like figuring things out even if they turn out not to be paranormal."
Sue came out of her office. "Do you have time to go to the post office?"
"Get me the packages. I'm on it."

I got on my bike outside the post office, and rode east into Jordan's Alley. I wanted to take a little side trip and go look at the Grove Street House---The one where the Jersey Devil had been spotted on the roof.
I stood in the alley, looking at the house from behind. There was a wooden porch in the back that had pretty visibly been added on in recent years, and I could see the portion of the house that it was covering up. There had been a short, one-story storage space in the back, and a two-story wing attached to it. It wouldn't have taken much to get up on the roof in 1909; I could have climbed up in about a minute and a half. Except I wouldn't have been born for about another sixty years.

"You're that ghost hunter guy, aren't you?" The old guy with the gray hair looked me over at the desk.
I nodded. "I'm a paranormal investigator, yes."
"I thought so! I thought I recognized you from the newspapers! Hey, you mind if I ask you a question?"
"Sure, I'll answer if I can."
"Okay. This is something that happened to me, twenty, thirty years ago. I was living 'round here at the time, and I was married....Not married anymore, but...."
This happens occasionally. I'm very familiar with the process. Some people say "question," but they mean "tell their life story." It's happened enough that I know all the signs. He's not going to ask a question, just take the next half hour telling me a ghost story.
"....So then I got up....I was always waking up in those days....And...."
I get these people who assume I'm basically a captive audience---They can stand there and talk to me endlessly, and I have to stand and listen. I have a tendency to fade in and out of these monologues, as it doesn't matter to them if I'm actually listening, just as long as I smile and nod.
So I wind up having an experience like this:
"...So I says to the guy, I says, don't you include the power-wash for free? And he says...."
I drift off here. This is nothing I need to know. And when I come back, mentally, to the real world:
"....So the chemo was fine, but it made blood come out of his...."
Wait, WHAT? How did we get here? Guess I'd better fade out again. I was better off that way. Smile and nod.
Everything was quiet when I got off the desk half an hour later. Thursday nights tend to be slow, unless I'm meeting with Teen Paranormal. I pulled the microfilm from 1909, and put it in the reader.
To prove the Jersey Devil sightings were a hoax, I needed to place Norman Jefferies in Lock Haven during the time. Many of the old newspapers used to run entire columns dedicated to who was visiting who from out of town: Mister and Mrs. Abraham Lipez got a visit from their daughter on Thursday last. She was traveling from New York.... The Clinton County Times would have been best for this sort of thing, but we didn't have it from 1909. So I settled for the Clinton Democrat, also a decent paper. I started scrolling.
I didn't find any mention of the Jefferies family. But things got really interesting almost immediately. In that era, there were a lot of mentions of the Jersey Devil---More than I'd realized. I printed them all off, one at a time.
On January 28, 1909, it had been spotted in Williamsport. January 30, in Lock Haven over the paper mill. February 1 had been the night Charles Poorman saw it on his roof on Grove Street.
On February 4, a young man named Harry Bey had been walking to work and seen the thing on a roof on Vesper Street. I checked the old Sanborn map and located the building---It was an eyewear place now. The part that fascinated me was that he'd thought it was a Giwoggle.
The Giwoggle was an old legend from northern Clinton County. It was a sort of artificial werewolf conjured up by a witch. It had the body of a wolf, the feet of a horse, and the hands of a bird. In 2011, the Giwoggle had been declared Clinton County's official monster---I'd made sure of that.
The same night, a party in Dunnstown had been interrupted by a possible Giwoggle sighting, but that had been an old widow playing a prank.
The final sighting had been on February 11, when a train conductor had again seen the Jersey Devil over the paper mill, flying east. After that, everything had become quiet.
So this involved the Giwoggle, too.
This had just gotten a lot more interesting.

My Friday radio program ended ten minutes early the next morning, so I walked around the corner to the eyewear place. It's right by Willard's Alley, on Vesper Street. I walked around it a bit, looking it over, and then stepped inside.
"May I help you?" the receptionist asked. Two old ladies were talking in the waiting area.
"Maybe. This is going to sound weird," I said. "I'm a local newspaper columnist who writes about local history. There was an incident with this building in 1909. How long have there been rentals up above?"
"I actually don't know," she said. "I don't even know how old this building is."
"At least 1906. I saw it on a map." Was a time, I'd felt pretty stupid just walking in and asking questions like this, but I've long since gotten over that. "Is there any rooftop access from the inside?"
"I don't believe so. You'd have to get a ladder."
Another woman came out, I think a doctor. "What are you researching?"
"This is the weird part," I said. "In 1909 you had a monster spotted on your roof."
She laughed. I said,"Have you ever heard of the Jersey Devil?"
She shook her head.
I continued,"It's a monster from New Jersey, a legend going back about three hundred years. Back in 1909, a Jersey museum owner got publicity by faking sightings, and this thing wound up spotted all over three or four states. People were calling off work because of the Jersey Devil."
"This is all real?" the doctor asked. The old ladies had ceased talking completely, and were now just staring at me.
"Well, it's definitely real that it happened," I said. "Whether the monster exists or not is something else."
"Yeah, I noticed your shirt," she said.
"Oh, right. My sister gave me this for Christmas." I was wearing the shirt that said Jersey Devil Hunter. "This is what it looked like. But in 1909, there was a man walking to work in the morning, and he claimed to have seen it on your rooftop."
"Well, that's pretty interesting. No, I don't think anyone could have climbed up on our roof at the time."
"That's what I needed to know," I said. "Thanks."

So, you stop by the grocery store after work, and you wind up talking about cryptozoological monsters. You know how it is.
I was in line, buying some stuff for dinner, when Tracey appeared behind me. "Hello," she said.
"Oh, hi, Tracey," I said. "How you doing?"
"Pretty good, you?"
"Not bad. Been busy. Thanks for loaning me that book on the Jersey Devil---I've been making some progress there."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah. From what I can figure out, it probably wasn't a hoax, or at least not a hoax perpetuated by Jefferies. Maybe not at all; some of those sightings would have been hard to fake. But while I was researching it, I found out that there's a lot more to the story than I realized. There were a lot of sightings about that time, all reported by the Clinton Democrat."
"Well, that's pretty interesting."
"The really neat part is that they mistook this thing for a Giwoggle. You remember the Giwoggle? I've written about it a couple of times."
"If I remember right, the headline was Here Today, Gone Giwoggle."
"That was one of them, yes. Clinton County's official monster. So there was a lot of discussion about whether it was the Jersey Devil, or a Giwoggle had come into town for a while."
Tracey smiled. "So you don't know for sure."
"No. It's gonna make a great column, but no. I don't know, and I don't have to. Some things are just as much fun if they stay a mystery."

"Hi, Adam," I said, walking into work. "How's things?"
"Doing good, man, doing good," said Adam at the desk. "How about you?"
"Good. You have a good weekend?"
"Yeah. You?'
"I did, but it's good to get back to work. I've got an article to write, and it's a good one."
"Cool, man."
I went back to my desk, threw my coat over my chair, and hung up my backpack on its hook. Then I sat down at my desk and started typing my column.
I wrote the headline. HERE THERE BE MONSTERS.
Tracey stopped by my desk. "I just got another book in. It's about ghosts in the Susquehanna Valley. Are you interested in taking a look?"
I smiled. Then I held out my hand, and took the book.
"Bring it on."

Ghost of Christmas Presents: The 2017 Christmas Special

Santa Claus was in Wayne Township.
"I want a Leah doll," said Paul. "And I want LOL dolls, and I want new tools. And I want candy!"
Santa smiled. "Is that all?"
"Ummm....Yeah!"
The Wayne Township Nature Park was hosting a nice Christmas walk. They had the path decorated, a representations of Christmas stories all along it. Santa was at the very end, taking requests from children. He gave my son a candy cane, and Paul immediately began eating it.
As we walked to the car, I said,"While we're out here, let's stop by Linnwood Cemetery."
"I have no idea which one that is," said my wife.
"It's by the railroad tracks. The one with the Capitol column in it," I said. "We had a photo donated to the library recently, and it's a soldier named Milford Krape. He's buried out there, but the cemetery record lists him as 'Millard Krape.' This is in contrast to his marriage record and his obit, and I told the director I'd get a look at what's on the actual gravestone."
"You'll have to tell me where it is."
"It's on Linnwood Drive, by the....Never mind. I'll direct you."
She pulled the Prius up by the church, and I got out and walked across the cemetery. I unfolded my map as I walked---I'd learned the hard way to always bring the paperwork along. I found the grave in the corner on the far side of the cemetery.
I pushed down the plants concealing the name.
Milford.
Okay, so it went down in the cemetery index wrong. Easy enough to correct, and this was a simple one to handle. 
Merry Christmas to me.

I've always loved Christmas. I grew up on a Christmas tree farm, which of course helped---Christmas put me through college. To this day, we get a free tree from the farm when we go visit.
I always put up our family nativity scene. A few years ago, we'd been given a used nativity scene that was missing some of the pieces, and I'm not real religious, so I'd filled in with stuff I had around the house. This had become a tradition, and these days, the yearly nativity scene consisted of Mary and Joseph, one shepherd, Captain America, Bigfoot, a sheep, two small dogs, Green Lantern, and Yoda.
When I was a kid, my parents had this beautiful wooden nativity scene that had been hand-carved in Germany or something. It had a small compartment above the manger where they'd put the baby Jesus until Christmas morning, leaving Mary and Joseph essentially staring at the floor. When they put the presents out overnight, they'd move Jesus down below, the significance being that he'd been born. So that was what Christmas meant to me, as a child: It was the day when Santa came, and let Baby Jesus out of the attic.

We had a tendency to meet in haunted places. After all, we are ghost hunters.
This time, it was Millie's house. I sat around the table with the rest of the Lock Haven Paranormal Seekers, holding our annual Christmas meeting. Theresa, Millie, Charlie, Ashlin, and Kara....And me. We had our snacks, and we had the table piled full of presents.
"Before we start, I brought something for everyone," said Theresa. She handed out window stickers, each one saying Paranormal Investigator. "I thought these would look good on our cars."
"I'm gonna have to find an alternate solution," I said.
"You need to get a windshield on your bike."
"I brought something for everyone, too," I said. I handed out little survival tools, each one about an inch long and containing a fire starter, whistle, blade, and compass. "I thought we could use these. Some of the situations we get into....These things give us a little survival kit. They can be clipped on a keychain, a zipper, carried in a pocket, whatever."
Kara looked hers over. "Hey, these are really nice. Where'd you get them?"
"Amazon. It's like having a magical genie. I shouldn't be allowed to have both a credit card and an Amazon account."
"I've got something to announce," said Charlie. "I haven't been as available lately, because I've been taking some classes and working to be an LPN. Over the next couple of years, I may have to miss some meetings and investigations, because of my class schedule. You guys can decide to drop me from the team, if you want."
"I think we'll make some allowances there," said Theresa.
"We can afford to cut you some slack, Charlie," I said. "Hell, if anyone on this team is likely to need a nurse, it's gonna be me."

There was an alien sitting on my desk when I got to work.
This was only sightly more odd than usual. My son had been enjoying a local program called "Haven Rockz," in which people hid brightly-painted rocks around town for other people to find. He'd been so visibly enjoying the rocks that library patrons had begun bringing me painted rocks for him specifically. Someone had left a big rock, painted to look like an alien, waiting on my desk when I got back from the radio show.
My name is Lou. My office is at the public library. As for what I do there....It's a little hard to explain, but the aliens do have something to do with it.
I was wearing my shirt that showed Bigfoot riding on the Loch Ness Monster, which helps sum things up. I investigate the paranormal and local history, write about it, and promote the library. It's a living, and I'm actually kind of surprised I'm the first one to have thought of this career.
I left a note for the director, detailing what I'd found in Linnwood Cemetery, and then got to work. I sat down and lost myself writing an article about Henry Wharton Shoemaker and his legend of the magic serpent in Sugar Valley, an exploration that was on my list to get to sooner or later.
My phone line beeped. "It's for you," Barb said.
"Okay, thanks." I switched to line one. "Hello, can I help you?"
"Dad, it's me." My daughter Tif, currently at home with Paul. "What's mom's number at work?"
"Should be on the fridge. Why?"
"Paul dropped Shimmer in the street, and she got run over before we could get her back."
"Oh, no." Shimmer is one of my son's favorite dolls, a cartoon genie with pink hair. The cartoon seems to mostly consist of Shimmer and Shine, the genies, spending the second half of the show trying to fix the stuff they screwed up during the first half.
"He's brokenhearted," said Tif. "He's been crying. I was hoping Mom could bring home another Shimmer, and we'll tell him Shimmer went to the hospital."
"Let me see what I can do," I said. "I'll call you back."

I walked through the Dollar Store, looking at the shelves. I wasn't finding a Shimmer doll, though they had a lot of toys on the shelves. One of the employees asked,"Are you finding everything you need? Can I help you with anything?"
"My son's Shimmer doll got destroyed, and he's really upset about it," I said. "I think he got it here originally. Do you have any more?"
"I'll check in the back," said another employee.
I turned to the manager. "Weird question....Have you or the other employees experienced anything....unusual....in here?"
"Oh, sure," she said. "There's ghosts. You see things out of the corner of your eye, the carts roll around on their own. There's noises. We have stuff happen all the time."
It continually amazes me how casually people take this stuff. I always feel a little hesitant to ask, and then people act like it's just giving directions.
"Have you ever looked into it?"
"I think it's my grandfather....He used to run this place back when the building was a Woolworth's. You remember that?"
"I wasn't living in Lock Haven then. But I've done some learning about it."
"I'd heard the place is haunted," I said. "Here." I got out an article I'd found before leaving the library, and handed it to her. "I got this out of the Express. Have you ever seen this one?"
"No! I didn't realize we'd made the paper."
"Well, it was around ten years ago. But I thought you'd like that."
The other employee came out of the back. "I called over to Dunnstown, and they're running a Shimmer over. "
"Thank you so much," I said. "If you guys would ever like a discreet investigation, feel free to ask."

When I walked in the door of my own haunted house after work, Paul immediately said,"Daddy! You get Shimmer at the hospital?"
"I did," I said. "I stopped by the hospital and picked her up." I pulled the new Shimmer out of my jacket pocket, wrapped in a white cloth, and handed it to him. "She's all better."
"Shimmer!" Paul grabbed the doll and hugged her. "You all better now! Daddy, I am so glad you bringed Shimmer home!"
"I think we'll get you a backpack, like mine," I said. "That way, you can put your toys in it, and you won't drop them anymore."
"Okay, Daddy," said Paul. "Shimmer! I so glad you okay! I love you!"
I smiled.
"Merry Christmas, Little Man," I said. "I love you, too."

Pilgrims And Aliens

"Da park is dat way," my son announced as we passed.
"I know," I said. "We're going to turn around and go back. We're having a little adventure first."
With Paul in the back carrier attached to one of my bikes, we pulled up at the ruins of an old railroad building just south of Church Street.
My wife was working long hours this week, and my daughter hadn't been available today. This left me with three-year-old Paul Matthew all day, and lots of quality time. Depending on what day it is, or sometimes my location, I'm a librarian, writer, historian, paranormal investigator, museum curator, or urban explorer. Paul thinks this is all perfectly normal.
On our way to the radio station that morning, we'd passed the remains of the old railroad shop, and I'd noticed that some of the railroad employees were doing some work on the spot. So on our way to the park, we were doing a little exploring together.
"We're going to look for some treasures, Paul," I said as I unbuckled him. "This is a really old place. This was for trains, a hundred years ago."
"Wow, Daddy," said Paul.
We walked together into the grass and along the railroad tracks. It was sort of like Indiana Jones, if he'd lived in Pennsylvania and had a son who wasn't Shia Lebouf. I found where they'd pulled up two metal girders and a huge concrete pillar, and knelt down beside them. We looked them over.
"Look at these big things," I said. "These were part of the building. No way we're getting these out of here; I'm amazed they were able to dig them out."
"Yeah," said Paul.
"This one used to be right over there."
"Right over dere."
"Let's look around."
We walked together along the tracks. The workers had, during the process, dug out several bricks and left them. Old ones, with the stamp of the Lock Haven Brick and Tile Company on them. Not just cast-off crap---Historic artifacts.
"Here, Paul," I said. "Treasure!"
"Here one! And here one!"
In less than a minute, we had a small pile of similar bricks. I picked up the best-looking one.
"We're not getting all of these out of here on the bike," I said. "We're going to take this one, and hide the rest under that tree."
"Okay."
I piled the extra bricks under a pine tree and placed the nicest one in the carrier. I said,"Okay, Paul. You're gonna ride with it. You guard our treasure we found."
"Okay," said Paul. "We go to da park now?"
"Yes," I said. "Let's go to the park."

Work is usually the Ross Library, though it's not really a job that you'd have an easy time describing on a resume. There just isn't a word for historian-writer-paranormal investigator-curator, and mostly I've given up trying to describe it. People know where to find me when they need me.
"Got any Thanksgiving plans?" I asked my co-worker Tracey in the back room.
"Probably mom and I will visit my sister. How about you?"
"We're taking Paul out to Dad's farm," I said. "We're having a dinner out there. He'll get to see his cousins, It's been a while."
"That sounds fun," she said. "Have you got something to investigate yet in case you need to get out of the house?"
"How did you know that?"
"You always do."
"Yeah, Dad's place has a lot of stuff. There's probably some ghosts, and Bigfoot's been sighted out there recently. There have been UFO sightings---Not too far off, people have seen some unexplained flashing lights in the sky. And there's some old Native American stuff to look into out there. I got plenty of stuff to do."
"Well, have fun with your aliens."
"I always do."

I grew up on Green Valley Farm, just outside of Slatington, Pennsylvania. It's a Christmas tree farm in a deep valley; my father bought the place decades ago. Since my mother died, by younger brother had moved back home, and was largely running the place these days. He'd added chickens and rabbits, various berries, and all sorts of stuff, turning the place into a profitable tourist farm.
It was on the property that  I'd first gotten interested in paranormal investigation. I'd spent hours outside hunting for lost temples. When I was six, I'd formed my cousins into a group we called the Ghost Gang, and investigated our houses, which was about all we had access to at the time. Around age eleven, I'd built a water monster trap out of cans and wire, and promptly lost it in the pond---It's probably still down there somewhere. At one point, in an effort to keep me from sneaking out at night, my father had invented a story of a green furry biped he called the Great Christmas Tree Goblin, thus insuring I would repeatedly sneak out and look for it.
Some things never change.

"We're almost there, Paul," my wife said to our son, sitting in the back of the Prius. "We'll be at Grandpa's house in five minutes."
"No. Ten hours," said Paul. Paul doesn't know how to tell time.
"So what makes you think your Dad's farm is some sort of Indian territory?" my wife asked me.
"Well, there have been all sorts of arrowheads found," I said. "Few years ago, when my brother built a new barn, he dug up a ton of them. And then there's the Harp Tree. Did I tell you about the Harp Tree?"
"Isn't that where you and your brothers saw this tree in the woods....?"
"It was near the stream, sort of shaped like a harp, with one branch leaning way out and other branches coming up from that, like strings. It's a little hard to describe. I think the tree is mostly gone now, but I've learned some stuff. Some of the tribes used to use bent trees to mark special places, cities and meeting places. I think the Harp Tree was one of those."
"And you're sure there were Indians around there?"
"Some of it's documented. There was supposed to be some sort of stopping point in the Lehigh Valley somewhere, a place known as Pochapuchkug---"
"Known as what?!?"
"It was kind of English-ized to sound like 'Pohopoco'. It's a spring in a valley, not near any of the main trails. There's documentation of one guy being taken to the place, around 1737, but not a whole lot else. I know it existed, but nobody's sure where."
Michelle nodded. She wasn't paying attention; I was lucky to have avoided the Look for this long. "When we get to your father's place, can you bring in my luggage? I can carry something of yours."
"I can get my pack."
"I can carry your pack, Daddy," volunteered Paul from the backseat.
"Okay, Little Man," I said. "But be careful of the hidden knives and the exploding gas balls."
"Why did you bring that stuff?" my wife asked.
"My cousin may show up."
"Your child might get into it. It's not like you're really going to have to bomb Bigfoot."
"Or a UFO. There have been UFOs."
"Just another minute, Paul," said Michelle.
"Fifteen hours," said Paul.

"You want to go for a walk with me and Paul, Uncle Lou?" my niece Bonnie asked. "We can go explore the woods someplace where I never went before."
I nodded. "Get your coat." I'd been looking for an excuse.
Everyone was preparing dinner, and the kids were running around the house. Brothers David and Jon and sister Jen were there, with their families. Bonnie is Paul's favorite cousin. He adores her.
I got my coat, and pulled it on over my shirt showing Bigfoot being abducted by a UFO. The coat was my most versatile one, a light green thing with lots of pockets, with an inner liner that could be removed to make the coat a light windbreaker. The liner itself could be independently worn as a fleece jacket. It was the coat I most often traveled with in the winter because of the versatility.
We left the farmhouse and walked east into the woods. I'd grown up out here. exploring every square inch as a kid. For Bonnie and Paul, it's different; it's a fun trip to Grandpa's. I remember how I felt, going to my own grandfather's place in Montgomery County, the chance to explore all that forest I didn't always have access to.
We crossed the creek and stopped for a moment. The Harp Tree had deteriorated a lot; it was barely even recognizable as a tree anymore. I looked at the one remaining limb and the ugly stump, working from old memories and figuring out where it had been pointing.
"What're you doing, Uncle Lou?" asked Bonnie.
"Trying to remember where this tree pointed to when I was your age. It kind of went this way, up the creek toward the pond."
"What's down here?" asked Bonnie.
"More trees mostly. You want to see?"
"Yeah! Come on, Paul!"
Paul trotted after Bonnie. "Daddy looking for aliens."
"Are you?" Bonnie asked me.
"If any show up. You never know. What do aliens say, Paul?"
"Take me your leader."
"That's right. What does the Loch Ness Monster say?"
"Tree-fitty."
"Right. You guys ready to go back up to the house? Dinner's probably about ready."
"Yes," said Bonnie,"But I want to come out again later."

After dinner, I went out by myself and walked around the woods for a while. I scanned the trees, looking for another bent one, or some other sign.
Anything the Indians left would be along the creek. They had a tendency to build their civilizations around the water sources. And if there's another sign, a tree or a cairn, it'll be way downstream---There's no point in putting the directional signals too close together. If any remaining signals still exist; almost two centuries of farming this land might have wiped them out.
So let's see. This stream comes from the pond, fed by the spring up in the yard. And it runs down until it hits the Lehigh River. The only Indian path in the area cut around here, skipping this part of the Lehigh and going overland for a while.
I tried to imagine the property as it would have been, centuries before. No farm, no house, no yard. The road wouldn't have existed. For that matter, neither would the pond. It was carved out later, by the earliest settlers.
So this would have been just dense woods, nothing but a spring deep in the valley. The only steady water source until you got down to the river.
I heard voices. The rest of the family was coming down through the field, calling to me. Michelle and Paul walked with my brother, Bonnie, and her family, carrying a saw to cut down a tree.
I joined them as they walked.
"Hi, Daddy!" said Paul. 'We walkin in the woods!"
"I see that," I said.
"What're you looking for, Uncle Lou?" asked Bonnie.
"Just checking around for old stuff, things maybe left behind by the Indians."
"There were Indians here?"
"There were Indians practically everywhere, but yeah, they used to come up this way. They stuck near water usually. Water was very important to them. You need it to drink, you need it to have food. So the water....."
We'd gotten back to what was left of the Harp Tree. I paused, looking over the tree and the stream.
"Uncle Lou?" said Bonnie.
I knelt down and began digging through the loose, muddy dirt at the base of the tree. Bonnie watched, fascinated. After a couple of minutes, I found it: An arrowhead.
"Wow," said Bonnie.
"It's not local to this area," I said. "This looks more like it came from the west. It means there was a different tribe through here at some point."
A stream in a valley, between two mountains. Remote but important.
It was here, the whole time.
We're Pochapuchkug.
"There were really Indians here," said Bonnie.
"There were," I said. "They came this way because there was water. This was a small village named Pochapuchkug."

The sun had gone down, and it was darker and colder outside. Not that this made any different to the kids, who were racing around the house playing and screaming. It's what kids are good at. The rest of us sat in the living room, socializing.
Outside, above the hill, there was a bang, followed by a few more. My brother looked at his watch.
"Well, if you go outside, you can get a firework show," he said.
"Fireworks on Thanksgiving?" asked Jen.
"There's a new Korean Church up the hill," said Jon. "They light off fireworks for practically any occasion."
"Ahhh," I said. "How long's it been there?"
"A couple of years."
"Which coordinates with the time frame I was wondering about," I said. "That explains the UFO sightings."
I walked out onto the porch and looked up the hill. I could see them, bright colored lights, flashing unexpectedly in the sky.

I finished tying the Christmas tree to the roof of the Prius and headed back to the barn. Paul was hugging my brother and his wife.
"Bye, Uncle Jon," he said. "Bye, Aunt Amy."
"Bye, Paul," Amy said. "We'll see you at Christmas."
"Yeah! Christmas!"
"Thanks for everything, Jon," I said to my brother. "See you in a month, man."
"Hey. We'll be there."
I got into the car, and my wife pulled out of the driveway and started up the hill.
"So," she said,"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Yeah," I said. "I think I did."
We got to the top of the hill, heading west.
"Didn't catch Bigfoot, though," she said.
I shrugged.
"Well," I said. "There's always next time."

Four Little Aliens

"See you tomorrow, guys."
Eight PM. We'd locked up the library doors, turned out the lights, and set the alarm. I walked with my co-workers Zach, Sue, and Tracey, down the stairs, out the door, and to my bike on the sidewalk.
Then I biked east, over to Willard's Alley, at the remains of a burned building.
Why? Well, that gets complicated.
The library job I'd just left is only a part of what I do. I also research history, write articles about it, investigate the paranormal, and explore abandoned places. It's not anything I envisioned myself doing in kindergarten, I'll tell you that.
This particular abandoned place had, a hundred years ago, been the home of the Clinton County Times, Lock Haven's wildest professional newspaper. It had burned in December of 2016, and still stood as a burned-out shell of a building. City council had been making noises about tearing it down, which was probably necessary, but I wanted to risk my life get my shot at collecting artifacts first.
I parked my bike at the mouth of the alley. The city had barricades up, which were clearly meant for other people. I slipped around them and entered the dark alley. (Seriously. Don't do this. I'm a professional.)
I was wearing my black jacket with half a million pockets. Out of one pocket in the left sleeve, I took a flashlight, and shined it as I walked down the alley. Burned boards lay across it, broken glass everywhere. The building had those old heavy glass 1950s windows, many of which had simply exploded outward during the fire.
I looked around. There didn't seem to be anything to find, to my disappointment. I heard voices coming up Bellefonte Avenue---College kids, out drinking. I killed the light and ducked behind a power pole, hiding in the dark until they'd passed.
I'd been hoping for some artifacts, something salvageable that I could put on display. But there was nothing; anything that had fallen into that alley was junk. Useless.
I walked back to my bike, and fifteen minutes later I was with my friend Ashlin, playing old ghost EVPs to entertain the cashiers at the grocery store.
They can't all be winners.

"It's National Aviation Month, Lou," said Mel at the desk. "You going to get some Piper stuff out on display?"
"I actually just recently had some Piper stuff," I said. "It's also Native American Heritage Month, so I got some artifacts out."
"That's right," said Mel. "I saw that. They look great."
"I did like the Piper items, too, though," said Adam.
"It's also National Impotence Month," I said,"But I didn't want to do a display about that."
Mel looked at me. "How did you find out it was National Impotence Month?"
"It wasn't hard."
Adam laughed. I went to my desk to work on an article about Great Island Cemetery. The cemetery, once up along Bellefonte Avenue, had been moved in 1918, and I was trying to write something for the anniversary. My working title was Year Of The Moving Dead, but I was flexible on that.
My desk is in the oldest section of the library, built back in 1887. It's by the Pennsylvania Room so I can help people with historic research, and exactly where our founder Annie Halenbake Ross's funeral was held so I can be haunted. Outside my window, the weather had turned colder, and I could see all the trees on West Main Street turning colors, which I enjoyed. The only drawback is that I'm missing actual walls; the general public can help themselves to my pens.
I checked my computer. I'd received a message from a friend, Tasha, who had seen mysterious lights in the sky on the east end of the city. She'd sent several photos, which showed a set of four lights, arranged in a square, shining down through the clouds in the neighborhood above the Robb Elementary School. Tasha was sort of a UFO enthusiast, which was actually how we'd met.
I studied the photos for a few minutes. It didn't exactly scream aliens to me, but things had been a little slow lately. This was something to look into.

"I'll say this just once, and then I'll stop bitching about it for the winter," said Tif, helping herself to some meatloaf. "I hate Daylight Savings Time."
"You're not gonna stop bitching," I said.
It was family dinner at the haunted house, which we did about twice a week. Tif and Biz, the daughters, came for dinner with my wife and me. Little Paul was always glad to see his sisters.
"It gets dark so early," said Tif.
"Yeah," Biz agreed,"It's dark at like four-thirty. It's depressing."
"Not for me," I said. "I'm a ghost hunter. I like the dark. This is my jam."
"At least it doesn't last for long," said Biz.
"It sucks," said Tif.
"Seriously, I'm forty-eight and I just used the phrase 'My jam' correctly," I said. "Is nobody going to address this?"
"No," said Biz. "Can I have that last potato?"
"Take it."
"I broke the back off my wheelchair," said Tif. "Is there any chance you can fix it?"
"I can take a look. Got a UFO sighting down on Church Street."
"Actual UFO? Or someone letting their imagination run away with them?"
I love our dinnertime conversations. "Hard to say, so far. I'm checking into it. It's most likely to be something mad-made, as the lights were arranged in a geometric, symmetrical shape. It's not far from Piper, so a good bet is some sort of aircraft or drone."
"If only you knew someone to check with down at Piper," Biz said.
"Chances are it's not actually aliens," I said. "Hey, Paul, what do aliens say?"
"Take me your leader," said Paul.

"So remember, we interview witnesses, we visit the site, we eliminate other possibilities," I said to the kids. "UFO does not necessarily mean little green men. Check all the possibilities before you write up your report."
Teen Paranormal is a group I run. We meet once a month at the library, and I teach the kids how to investigate the unknown. I glanced around the room at the kids: Alex, Olivia, Meridian, Seth, and Emma. I was wearing my alien shirt that said It's cool. We come in peace.
"I just happen to be working on an actual UFO investigation right now," I said. "A witness got this photo of four lights, flying in the clouds above Robb Elementary. We have here a CE-2. I want to take a look, and let you guys discuss it."
I handed out color printouts of the UFO seen down on Church Street. The kids all passed them around, and studied them.
"Sun shining through the clouds," said Seth.
"I don't think so," Emma commented. "It's too geometric, it's all a square."
"This was taken in the early evening," I said. "The sun sets in the west. At that time, the sun would be over Highland Cemetery on the other end of town."
Alex was studying the photo intently. "A helicopter? Or four, flying in formation?"
The idea of a formation had genuinely not occurred to me. "Could be, I suppose. The airport is down there, and there's a military armory just across the river."
"Or drones," suggested Emma.
"I was considering drones," I said.
"Too big," suggested Alex.
"Actually, that's an important lesson," I said. "Size can be quirky when discussing UFOs. There's nothing to compare it against, up in the air. So it can be difficult to tell how big an object is." The kids were all studying the printouts. "So, let's try this---What can we rule out?"
"Well, nothing," said Seth. "Anything is possible."
"I don't know," I said. "I think we can rule out most natural things---This is clearly not four meteors flying in formation. Not birds or animals. This was clearly something designed by people, or at least something that understands basic shapes."
"I'm thinking drone," said Emma.
"I'll have to check," I said. "There are a couple of drone clubs that meet down that way; it's near Piper. Fortunately, it's real easy for me to check Piper. You guys can keep these photos. Next month, Bigfoot. Class dismissed."

"They're working on the heat," Stacy said to me. "Your office is okay, and the hangar is never heated, but the rest of the museum has been cold. We have a guy in fixing it."
"Yeah, we gotta get that done," I said. I'm the curator down at the Piper Aviation Museum, on the east end of Lock Haven. It's been two years now, and I still haven't quite overcome the thrill of it. Being able to work in an old airplane factory with secret staircases? Having access to actual planes? It's going to be a long time before I take that for granted.
The repair guy stuck his head in Stacy's office. "I have to run out and get a new part," he said. "Hey, I know you. You're that guy who writes for the newspapers."
"That's me."
"I got something I want to ask you," he said. "Later, when nobody's around."
"I'll be here," I said, and he walked off down the corridor. Stacy and I looked at each other.
"Ghosts," we said simultaneously.
I grinned. "I get that a lot. I'm gonna go poke around down in the hangar for a while."
"Don't forget, board meeting in half an hour."
I walked back to my office, and then took the secret staircase downstairs. It led down to a little-used back room, with all sorts of old airplane parts piled everywhere. I found an old seat, red upholstery, looked like it had come from a Tri-Pacer or something.
Could I....?
I looked it over.
Yeah.
Yeah, I think maybe I could.
It was a double seat, but it had one back attached. The size looked about right. It was the kind of stunt I generally thought of, often motivated by a desire to be known as The Guy Who Did The Thing, and it's astounding how often that works out for me. But I really thought I was on to something here.
This might actually work.
I examined it for a while, then went to the workroom and found a pair of pliers. I twisted the screw holding the seat in place, and it came out. The whole seat came free, and I carried it upstairs to my office.
I called Tif from my cell phone---The museum extension in my office hasn't worked since 1997.
"Hello, Daddy." Paul. He was learning to answer the phone lately, and quite enjoying it.
"Hello, Paul. How is your day?"
"Goot. You want to talk Sissy?"
"Yes, thank you."
A moment later: "Hi, Dad."
"Hey, hon. I think I can fix your wheelchair. I'm gonna slap an airplane seat on that."
"What? Seriously?"
"Oh yeah. You think I don't have access to airplane parts? I got a seat here that looks perfect. I think it's out of a Tri-Pacer, or maybe a Comanche or something. I'm pretty sure I can fix that on for you."
"Well....If you think it'll work."
"I think I can do it. You'll have the only wheelchair in the world that's part airplane. I'm like Red Bull----I give you wings."

"That's about it," said President John, sitting at the long table in the conference room. "Anyone have anything else?"
He looked around the table. Out of the seven board members attending, nobody had anything outstanding. We all stood up and started filtering out.
"John," I said,"Was there anyone flying drones down here, about a week ago?"
"Not right at the airport," he said. "There's a blocker that won't let you, so it doesn't interfere with the planes. They have to shut it off for the drone club. Might have been a block or so away."
"I got a report of a UFO over near Robb Elementary."
We stepped into the elevator. He said,"Yeah, there could have definitely been someone flying a drone over there. The blocker wouldn't extend that far." He laughed. "Better than what I did out in Indiana in my youth. I had half the National Guard out by tying a flashlight to a kite. I'd rigged it to have a red light on one end, and a white light on the other, and I flew it over town. They called out the National Guard."
"Oh, that's great," I said. I laughed. "Better than all the damn drones."

"Okay." I began drilling hles in the plastic base of Tif's wheelchair seat. "If I've planned this out right, I should be able to get this on there. Gonna take me a little while."
"Do you need me to make dinner?" Tif asked. I was kneeling by her chair in the living room.
"No. But preheat the over to 425."
I started attaching an L-brace on with a screwdriver. Paul said,"I want to help."
"Okay, little guy. Go get me some bolts. They're on the table."
Paul ran into the kitchen and came back with bolts. I said,"Good. Do you see a pliers anywhere around?"
"Uh, no," he said. and then found one on the floor and held it out to me.
"Good. I'm gonna need that." I pushed the bolts through the drill holes and then picked up the seat. Holding it in place, with some swearing, I started bolting it to the seat base, one bolt at a time.
The thing came out looking better than I'd planned. In about half an hour, I had the Tri-Pacer seat back attached to the base.
"That's not bad," Tif said, looking it over. "Better than I expected."
I looked it over, rather impressed with myself. "You have the world's first wheelchair/Tri-Pacer hybrid," I said. "This could be a new hobby for me."
"You can get other parts?"
"Availability of parts is not the issue. I could build a Comanche in the backyard by smuggling out one piece at a time. Wings on my bike! Longerons on the Prius! An altimeter on Duke!"
"What's for dinner?"
"Pork and vegetables. Time for me to get to it."
I was at the stove when Paul called out,"Mommy's home!"
My wife and Biz came in. I said."Just in time. I been marinating this pork since last night."
Biz looked over the wheelchair. "That looks pretty good," she said. "It looks like it belongs on there."
I smiled.
"Yeah," I agreed. "Yeah, it kinda does."

Angel Of Death

I woke up with the air conditioner on and Lucy Lawless lying beside me.
Typical morning.
After a moment of digging around, I found my son curled up in the covers. My wife was away, and he'd been waking up in the night and coming to bed with me. He'd done it about three in the morning last night. And he'd brought along my limited-edition Lucy Lawless action figure, as she'd appeared on the Simpsons, which he'd been playing with the night before.
I let him sleep and headed for the shower. It wasn't the weirdest morning I'd ever had.
The coffee started while I was in the shower. We have one of those automatic timers, which may be the most useful technological advance of my lifetime. I pulled on my "I'd Rather Be Ghost Hunting" T-shirt, and I was on my third cup of coffee by the time my daughter arrived to watch the little guy. So I got my jacket, climbed on my bike, and went to work.

"Work" is generally the local public library, but as for what I do there, it's a little hard to describe.
I have no idea how to describe my career. When people ask what I do for a living, I usually stammer a little. I'm a librarian, tour guide, paranormal investigator, curator, writer, and historian. There's no term that sums all that up. "Ghost writer" is already taken.
I suppose I got lucky.
I grew up to get paid for all the stuff I dreamed of doing as a kid.

"I just read an article where people believe that America's leading UFO experts are being systematically murdered," I said to Tracey at the desk.
She frowned. "Oh, no."
"So if I don't come into work for a couple of days," I said,"Maybe just check on that."
Tracey smiled. I said,"Actually I don't think it's gonna happen, but just in case."
"I'll leave a note on the bulletin board. So what're you working on now?"
"I was asked to check into the angel statue up at Highland Cemetery. There's this huge angel sculpture up there, at the top, looking over it all. The Cemetery Association has no record of it being made or paid for, and yet, there it is. I'm looking into who might have created the thing."
The phone rang, and I picked it up. "Ross Library."
"I'm looking for Lou," said the voice on the other end.
"That would be me."
"You recently wrote about the Held shooting," said the voice. "This is his niece."

"You okay?" asked Zach as I stood by the shelf in the back room.
I nodded. "Thanks, man." Pretty clearly I looked upset. "I just got my first reaming over the Held piece."
Zach winced. "Oh, man. I'm sorry."
"Yeah. The guy who committed a mass shooting at the paper mill in 1967; I wrote about him in my column Saturday. Some of the relatives are upset about it. I tried to be as sensitive as possible, but the call I just got was mad." I shook my head. "Thing is, it was the fiftieth anniversary of the shooting. The Express was going to have someone write about it; there was no avoiding that. I figured better me than someone who wouldn't be gentle about it. But they're not happy."
"Sorry, Lou."
I shrugged. "It hurts some, it's disturbing, but it happens. It's not the first time I've gotten these calls, it won't be the last."

It was after eleven, and I was sitting in my haunted house watching BoJack Horseman. Don't judge me. It was the episode where BoJack goes hunting for his daughter's birth certificate, and gets all tangled up in paperwork at the county courthouse.
That's wrong. They can't make you fill out a million forms for this stuff; it's public information. They can't prevent you from getting it. and birth certificates aren't kept at the county level anyway; they're state documents. This whole episode is wrong.
I should check before making any claims, though. The show is set in California, and though courthouses tend to be uniform, maybe there was some discrepancy. I was halfway to my computer before I re-thought that.
You're really going to call California to debate an episode of BoJack Horseman?! Seriously, like you have nothing better to do?
What's really bothering you?
Instead, I walked back downstairs. I pulled on my jacket, and went out for a walk.

South Summit met Peach Street at a bend right by the parking lot. Currently, it was the lot of First Quality, but before about 2001, it had been Hammermill Paper. The site of the shooting. I was standing, late at night, looking out at the lot where it had all begun fifty years ago.
I looked through the fence at the lot. That was where it had all happened, before I'd even been born. Where one man had spent one morning changing peoples' lives, causing pain that would last half a century.
I was just doing my job, goddammit.
I sighed and walked back to the house.

"I got an angry call from the Held family," I said to my daughter in the kitchen.
"I'm not surprised," Tif said. "I still think you shouldn't have written that one."
"Someone had to."
"No, they didn't."
Tif was unpacking the groceries she'd brought up. My little boy, Paul, was darting from room to room and carrying his toys.
"It was the fiftieth anniversary," I said. "Someone was going to write about it."
"It didn't have to be you."
"I figured the Express would get someone else if I didn't do it," I said. "The Sun-Gazette and the CDT had people write about the incident, and that had nothing to do with me. And they were brutal; I figured at least I could be sensitive. I tried."
"But the family doesn't see it that way."
"No. They want it to just go away, which isn't going to happen. It's news, but I wanted to handle it right."

When I got to work, I started working on the angel statue. It was on the Kintzing plot, so clearly the request for it had come from someone in the Kintzing family. In the Pennsylvania Room, I pulled the cemetery index, and looked up the Kintzings.
They were actually buried all over the cemetery, but there were only about a dozen of them in that one plot. The first to be buried there had been Reese Kintzing, in 1940. He was a likely candidate to have ordered the thing, but I needed proof.
I looked up his obit, in June of 1940. I scanned through the microfilm---Of course it would be the last issue on the roll, at the very end of the film. I was hoping for something like "A fine angel sculpture was placed at the grave of Reese Kintzing, created by...." but that wasn't happening. The obit was barely anything at all, odd for such a prominent family.
I paced for a while.
"Looking for something, Lou?" Adam asked at the desk.
"Yeah, I'm trying to track down an angel statue, and I can't figure it out. How'd you know?"
"You always pace like that."
"Well, I'm stuck trying to figure out who made the thing. If I could find out exactly who paid for it...." I stopped and thought for a moment. "I need to look at wills."
I spent some time changing out October's displays, and putting up November. This meant I had to get all the ghost books and ghost-hunting equipment out of the display cases, put it away, and put out all the Indian weapons and artifacts. I have to stress that this was all work-related.
A pleasant-looking woman with glasses spotted me by the desk.
"You must be Lou," she said.
I nodded. "You're the new boss."
We shook hands. The Director was retiring, and this was the first day I'd gotten to meet New Boss, who would be taking over fully in January.
"You're the ghost hunter," she said.
I grinned. "That's me."
"Well, I'm looking forward to hearing more about that."
"You'll get your chance," I said. "If there's anything you need from me, let me know."

"How much you guys want for copies?" I asked the Register and Recorder in the courthouse.
She waved her hand dismissively. "For you? Nothing. Take them."
"You realize you're just driving up everyone's taxes."
She grinned. "We're pretty self-sufficient."
"Well, that would make one government office that is."
 "I liked that piece you wrote about Pat Tyson, and her investigations. She spent a lot of time searching for things in here." I'd recently written about Pat; earlier in the month I'd found a file Pat had left behind, with pages of handwritten information on local paranormal legends. I'd looked into a local witch story, and gotten a pretty good column out of it.
"Oh, thanks," I said. "Yeah, that was a fun one. I loved Pat."
"We all loved her."
I went back to the records room, lined with deeds and other documents. A moment later I came out. "If I ask about Will Book M, am I gonna get some story about how it perished in the seventy-two flood?"
"It's in the back room, on the microfilm."
I went back, got the film, and put it into the machine. I found the will and all the estate documents of Reese Kintzing, the first member of the family buried in the plot with the angel.

"Still need to investigate a little more," I told Tif. "But I can make a pretty good case that Reese Kintzing was responsible for having the angel built."
We were upstairs, in my home office. Tif was on my computer, and Paul was running around playing with his toys. I said,"I pulled his will at the courthouse. Now, Reese was the head of the household, and it's logical he'd have been the guy who ordered up the angel sculpture. Now, it would make sense that they'd have used some company that they're already familiar with, that they have some sort of in with. Right?"
"That would make sense," said Tif.
"Reese Kintzing owned four shares in the Lock Haven Mausoleum Company."
"Ah," said Tif. "That sounds logical."
"It's circumstantial," I said. "But Lock Haven Mausoleum sounds like a good possibility."
"More than that," said Tif. "It sounds like a fair bet."

"Call on line one for you," said Sue. "At least, I assume it's you. The guys wanted to talk to the paranormal investigator."
"Thanks, Sue," I said. I picked up on the line.
A few minutes later, she came back to my desk. "Felt like messing with you. Anything good?"
"Not so much my thing," I said. "He felt there was something paranormal going on because there is a higher than usual number of rabbits in his yard. I don't see anything paranormal in that."
"No....I don't know much about animals, but I don't think that's due to ghosts."
"I've checked on the angel up at Highland Cemetery," I said. "Looks like it was created by the Lock Haven Mausoleum Company, and probably in the 1920s. That was when Reese Kintzing's son George died, and it's a safe bet that the angel was created then. The Mausoleum Company was at 313 Vesper Street, and it's a reasonable theory that they're the ones who made the angel."
"Well, awesome."
"I even found an article form 1926 where they'd had an especially hard winter. The ground was all frozen, and to do burials in March, they actually had to use dynamite."
"No way!"
"Seriously. Now I get to report back to the Highland Cemetery Association on where the angel came from. And I'm gonna ask for some dynamite."
I sat down at my desk and checked my e-mail. I had coffee in my Bigfoot mug. I signed into my e-mail account and looked it over.
There was a note from the daughter of Pat Tyson.
I read the e-mail.

Dear Lou - Thank you so very much for the article in today's Express. Once again you outdid yourself; reading it brought a tear to my eye. My mom was always very proud of you, and I can't tell you how many times she would ask "Did you read Lou's story today?"  Thank you for remembering her, it means a great deal to think that others still hold happy memories, not to mention that she would be trilled to be on the front page again after all these years. Thank you again.

I smiled.

It made me feel a little better.

Stage Fright

Who's got two thumbs and gets to investigate a haunted theater? This guy!
It loses a little something without the visual, but you get what I mean.
"We've done this sort of thing before," I said to the guy at Millbrook Playhouse. "The Lock Haven Paranormal Seekers have done plenty of fundraisers before. Usually it consists of a seminar, about an hour, on how to investigate. Then we split into groups and do an actual run, give people a chance to use what they've learned."
Millie and Ashlin, two of the LHPS team members, were standing in the office doorway behind me. The theater guy nodded. "My mom is coming in from California at that time. She's excited about this."
"That's great. Give her a discount," I said. "You should also know that you might get a call from a woman who owns a haunted attraction in the area. I've had problems with her before; she calls up nonprofits claiming to be an inspector from Harrisburg, and telling them that they can't do their fundraiser. She's just trying to prevent people from cutting into her profits; all calls of that sort should be referred to me. I will also accept 'Go screw yourself' as a correct answer."
The guy laughed. Millie said,"Let's do a walk-through."
We went upstairs. We were all wearing our team uniforms---Black, with the LHPS symbol on them: A stylized ghost. Millie turned on the lights, and we walked into the stage area.
"Well," I said. "Enter stage right. This looks good."
Millie is on the board of Millbrook, a local theater in Mill Hall. She said,"This place has a history to it."
I nodded. "Built in 1850. In 1915, Sedgewick Kistler bought the place and used it as a dairy farm. We've dealt with the Kistlers before---Little Gertrude is thought to still be haunting her place after drowning at age twelve in 1920. Doing the math, she would have been seven when her dad bought this farm, which means she might have had fond memories here." I stepped up into the seats. "All of this means that this theater might just be haunted by our old friend Gertrude Kistler."

LHPS was formed ten years ago, in October 2007. We've investigated haunted houses and businesses, cemeteries, and curses. We've done classes and fundraisers for nonprofits. We've been in the newspapers and magazines. And, with all that, we've wound up becoming Clinton County's most well-known ghost-hunting team.
Lock Haven Paranormal Seekers.
Haunters gonna haunt.

We meet once a month, usually either at the Piper Museum or Millie's house. We spend about twenty percent of the meeting talking paranormal business, and the rest discussing movies. It's worked for us for ten years. Don't judge.
This time, it was at Millie's house. We sat around the kitchen table: Team manager Theresa, Millie, me, Kara, Ashlin, and Charlie.
"What do we have?" Theresa asked, looking down at her notepad.
"Millbrook," I said. "The Millbrook Theater fundraiser is coming along pretty well. Me, Millie, and Ashlin did a walk-through the other day, and it looks like we have a lot to work with."
"We'll be on the main stage," said Millie, "When we break into groups, we'll have the green room and the kitchen to investigate. There should be plenty of space. There will be another play down in the cabaret while we do this. A murder mystery."
"Are we going to get contamination?" asked Charlie.
"I doubt it," I said. "The rooms are pretty well soundproofed, and set far enough apart. I wouldn't worry about it. That's an old barn, built in 1850 and used as a dairy farm. Bootlegger Prince Farrington hid his whiskey in there. It's where they first genetically bred Holsteins."
"I think that sort of history is what the audience will like," said Theresa.
"I'll work something up."
"I won't be able to make it to the seminar," Theresa said.
"No problem," I said. "I'll do the introductions, and we'll handle it about the way we did last time, at Piper. Kara on EMFs, Millie on basic rules, Charlie as local color. It'll be good."

Millbrook Playhouse used to be a dairy farm. Inside, it's a wonderful little theater, but on the exterior, nobody has wasted a lot of time making it look like not a barn. What gives it away is the big orange sign on the roof: MILLBROOK PLAYHOUSE.
We all arrived at close to the same time; I'd ridden in with Millie. We were all wearing our team uniforms, the black sweatshirt with the LHPS symbol on the back. We carried in the equipment and set it down on the stage.
"I brought pizza," said Millie.
"Is there an outlet?" Charlie asked, unspooling the camera cords. We glanced around.
"One right there, at the front of the stage," said Millie.
Kara looked up. "There's one up on top of that pole."
"That's ten feet high," said Millie.
"I can climb that," I said, looking up.
"Don't."
"As long as you stipulate that I totally could."
"Check the camera feed," said Charlie. "Let's see if it's coming in okay."
Kara and I leaned toward the screen----We have a black and white flat screen that catches the feed from the infrared cameras once they're hooked up. It was showing our table, where Kara and I stood. Kara said,"It looks fine to me, Charlie."
"Is that what my hair looks like from the back?" I said.
"Do we have any painters' tape?" Kara asked. "How about extra batteries?"
I did a walk through the building, the way I always did. Checking for hiding places, hot spots, vulnerable points. When I got back, Charlie and Kara were sitting at the table, changing over batteries in the equipment.
"We're talking about trying out dowsing rods," Kara told me.
"The hell," I said.
She laughed. "See, I told you he'd react that way."
"They could work, Lou," said Charlie.
"They're bullshit," I said. "You find me one that's freestanding, without a human holding it, and then maybe."
"They're old-school," said Kara. "It's the way they used to do it."
"So are leeches."
I looked out over the stage. The empty seats waited in the audience.
"Guys," I said,"Welcome to show business."

Much like the movie For The Love Of Helen, our opening night had about twelve people in the audience. At seven PM, I stood up and faced the audience. I tend to be the one who opens the programs and makes the introductions, because I'm almost completely shameless.
"Everyone, thank you for being here and supporting the Millbrook Playhouse," I said. "We're the Lock Haven Paranormal Seekers, and this month is special to us. This October, our team has been together for ten years."
The lights were on us.
"Our seminar consists of two parts. First, we're going to do the lesson on how to investigate, and then we're going to do an actual investigation. To the best of my knowledge, this is the first time this has ever been done in Millbrook. So get ready. We're going to have a good night."

The lesson took about an hour. We've all done it a million times. We took a short intermission, and then gathered and organized the investigation portion of the night.
I pulled on my vest, a black tactical vest with all my investigative equipment in the pockets. Kara smiled. "I like how you have to get all dressed up like Batman."
"It's got all the pockets for my equipment," I said. "Plus, I look awesome in it, and I think we can all agree that's the important thing here."
"How are we gonna do this?" Charlie asked.
I turned to Millie. "It's your event; you're the major player tonight. What do you think?"
"With this small a group, no need to split up," she said. "There are performances downstairs, so we'll stay up here on the stage. We've had activity in here. Let's set up here and do a run-through."
"Let's pull the chairs up," I said. We dragged the chairs closer to the audience, and got out the recorders and EMF detectors. I held up a couple of them. "Who wants to use an EMF detector?"
Several hands went up. We handed out the detectors, and I killed the stage lights, and we sat down and turned on the recorders. And we began our first onstage EVP session.
"Can you tell us your name?"
"When did you die?"
"Is there a message you'd like us to pass on?"
"This," I said to the audience,"Is why I hate the ghost-hunting TV shows. They never show this part, the part where you guys paid ten bucks to sit quietly in the dark. They always show drama, action, and it's not really like that. I'm always getting people asking me,'What's the scariest thing you've ever seen?' That'd be my sister-in-law. It's not really like that."
There was a noise from the corner of the room, near the door. We all turned, Charlie got up to go and look. I took out my laser thermometer and got some readings.
"Guys, six-degree temperature drop over here," I said. "Could be nothing, but...."
"Let's get photos," said Kara.
"Guys?" Charlie called over. "There's a drawer open over here."
There was a cabinet near the door, in a sort of lobby-like entrance. One drawer was hanging open. Millie said,"We had a hard time prying that one open the other day."
"Let's move the investigation over a little," I suggested. "We'll gather over here and try another session."

Everyone moved over, into the lobby area. We sat down and settled, and turned the recorders back on. A woman said,"Could someone walking nearby have caused the drawer to open?"
She closed it, and tried walking past it again. Nothing happened. I jumped a couple of times, bringing down all my weight with a crash. The drawer stayed shut.
"Guess we can rule that out," said Kara.
One of the audience said,"I'm getting a reading on the EMF meter."
Millie, next to her, checked. "It's spiking at seven. Baseline is one."
"What's on the other side of that wall?" asked a participant.
I walked around and checked. "There is a microwave there, yes."
"Is it running?" Millie asked.
I shook my head. "Turned off."
"Then it shouldn't be causing this. It looks like we're getting some activity."
"Got some company tonight, folks," I said. "I hope you all feel you got your money's worth."

It was about ten PM when the whole thing let out. Breaking down always takes less time than setting up; without Theresa there to show us what to plug in, we're better at the breakdown. We had everything disassembled and packed up in fifteen minutes, and carried it all out to Millie's car.
"Hey, before we go," said Kara. "Gotta get a group picture."
"Kinda like the one we did in Highland Cemetery, ten years ago," I said. "The first walk-through we ever did."
"Let's gather here, in front of the theater," said Millie.
We all stood together, and got our photo taken.
"It's been a good ten years," I said. "We've come a long way."

The Scare Witch Project

Every October, I write a series of columns about ghosts and old legends for the local newspapers. Usually this means I have to come up with about a dozen different ideas on stories about the paranormal. The old murders, the haunted houses.
There's a reason they call it a deadline.
Generally, I wind up digging through a lot of old files and newspapers. It gets harder every year as I try not to repeat myself. It was a Tuesday afternoon when, in desperate need of another story, I found myself digging through a file cabinet just off the Sloan Museum wing on the second floor of the library.
I found a thick file labelled "Ghosts," and pulled it out. I flipped through it. A couple of stories were ones I already knew, but then I found the stack of handwritten pages at the end of the file.
"Oh, wow."

"Pat Tyson was the closest thing I had to a mentor in paranormal research," I said. "She used to call me up and tell me when she liked one of my columns. She and I worked together on a few projects, speeches and all."
"She sounds nice," said my daughter. Biz had come to visit me at the library. She drops by sometimes to make sure I haven't forgotten to eat.
"She was wonderful. She died back in 2013," I said. I picked up a manila file and opened it. "Upstairs, today, I was going through an old file cabinet. You know how this place is bigger on the inside? I found an old file from Pat. Handwritten notes that she compiled about all sorts of paranormal legends."
"Oh, wow," said Biz. She looked over the file.
"The Giantess, the K-Mart ghosts....She made connections I'd never discovered," I said. "She found the Giantess years before I did, and never told anyone about it. And she connected it with the two petrified bodies in Great Island Cemetery. She saw the Indian ghost at K-Mart."
Biz was flipping pages. "I wouldn't mind a copy of this myself."
"I'll get you a copy. She wrote about some stuff I've never stumbled onto yet. The Witch of Sugar Run. There was a witch known as Sal Kervine who lived up just outside the city limits, and was known for casting spells on people. I'm going to be months checking out all of this."
"That's awesome," said Biz. "When are you going to start?"
I smiled at her. "You coming up for dinner tomorrow?"

Dinner was ham, browned Brussels sprouts, and garlic potatoes. With Paul watching, I cooked it so it was ready when Michelle brought Biz to the house. I am not a one-trick wonder.
"Got another offer to be on a TV show," I commented. "A producer e-mailed me, asking if I'd be interested in doing a show about investigating with teenagers."
"Oh, cool," said Biz. "That sounds fun."
"Well, until you factor in that the first thing I teach the kids is that everything on TV is wrong," I said. "I get a couple of these offers every year. But they do crap investigation on television; they're really unprofessional. I wouldn't want to sell out like that."
"It would be cool to see you on TV, though," said Biz.
"You mind if we make a stop before we drop you off tonight?" I asked. "I want to check out the Flemington Cemetery."

I walked through the cemetery, looking out across the gravestones. Flemington Cemetery had been around for over a century and a half. I noted the stones, and the empty spaces in between them, and then walked back to the car.
"You find what you were looking for?" Biz asked from the back seat.
"Yeah, I think so. I can tell where the bodies I need are....Great Island Cemetery was moved in 1918. Some of the bodies were brought up here, and I'm pretty sure they're in the old empty space to the south. Two of them were female, and listed as petrified---The bodies had turned to stone. These may correlate with reports of two female ghosts, one wearing black and one wearing white, in Great Island Cemetery."
"This have to do with the file you found yesterday?"
"Yeah. Pat ties the Great Island ghosts in with the Giantess. She seems to have been working on this Grand Unified Theory of paranormal investigation in Clinton County. All of her stuff seems to connect. I'm going to look into it, and see what I can figure out. I'm making a start on the Witch of Sugar Run."
"There was really a witch?"
"There seems to have been someone, and this seems to have been some sort of family story. The witch's name, in the legend, is Sal Kervine. Pat got this story from a friend of hers named Curvan. Those are similar enough that I had to wonder if it was some sort of family connection, and I checked the 1862 map. Along Sugar Run, way back when, a property was owned by someone listed on the map as P. Crevin, which is also pretty close. Nobody had standardized spelling back then; they just wrote down whatever they thought they heard. So if I can find out about P. Crevin, I can find my witch."
"Didn't you write a column about something like this in Farrandsville, a while back? A witch casting spells on people. Your headline was Spell Check."
"Yeah, and it's a similar story, though this makes more sense. The story involves her cursing people who were riding past her house, and Farrandsville isn't on the way to anywhere. You go to Farrandsville, you have to turn around and go back; it's the end of the road. Sugar Run makes more sense."
"It does, actually."
"Millie lives up near Sugar Run. LHPS has meetings right where a witch was casting spells in the 1800s. So maybe I can interest the team in checking into this. "
"Well, you have looked into witches before."
"County's full of 'em."
"And what do you plan to do when you find her?"
"See if she weighs the same as a duck."
"I be a witch for Halloween," added Paul.
"I know, little man. I promised to make you a wand. So I'm going to see if I can figure out who the witch really was, check some obits and property records. I looked through some of the obits today at work, and found Curvans, but no connection yet. Nothing that resembles the witch."
"So what's your next step?" asked Biz.
"There's never only one way," I said. "If you can't raise the bridge, lower the river."

I began my morning with a committee meeting at the Piper Museum, and then I had to deal with a fuel issue with the new Comanche. I fielded a couple of ghost questions from visitors. I was wearing my Kraken t-shirt. Mondays.
I made a stop at the courthouse halfway between Piper and the library. I dropped my pack off at the radio station rather than put it through security. I have no idea how to describe what I do for a living.
"Lou! Your son's not with you today?" asked the Register and Recorder when I walked into the office.
"I'm flying solo today," I agreed. "But I'll have to bring him in here soon. He likes it. You guys all give him candy."
I hadn't found anything under obits yet that I could use, so I tried Wills. There's never only one way. I had to try as many different spellings as I could, so I checked Curvan, Cervin, Crevin, Kervine. People weren't all hysterical over spelling back in those days. I finally found a Patrick Craven, died in 1891 with no Will. I copied off his estate documents, and then checked deeds.
Patrick had owned a lot of property, all over the county. That explained the Farrandsville discrepancy---He'd owned property there, too, so the family had likely told the same story in different locations. I checked to see if he'd owned the Sugar Run property in Bald Eagle Township---At the time, anyway; these days it's part of Allison Township. I found a barely readable deed from 1859 where Patrick Craven had bought the property in Bald Eagle.
I knew where. Now I had to find out who.
I biked over to the library. It was getting cooler out---I love autumn, but so far it had been about as chilly as the 1862 town fire. Now it was beginning to cool down, and the leaves were starting to fall.
Our IT guy was in when I got to the library.
"I think I have the server fixed," he told me. "It's been down all week. We're having a bad week for the computers; I can't figure out what's wrong."
"You want me to look into curses?" I asked. "Check to see if maybe we're built on an Indian burial ground?"
He grinned. "Well, that won't hurt. I don't have better ideas."
"I do what I can."
I went to my desk, where I pulled the index file for the obits. There's a certain luxury in being able to work in the library before it actually opens. Now that I had a name, I could find out more.
"How's it going, Lou?" asked my co-worker Sue as she walked past.
"Tracking down a witch," I said.
"Because of course you are."
I found Patrick Craven's card. He had an obit in November of 1891 and he was listed as "buried in the Catholic Cemetery." There were at least three of those, but when I checked the cemetery records, I found him in Saint Mary's, buried not far from where he'd lived.
Several family members were buried with him. Including a wife, who'd outlived him. Mary.
"Any luck?" Sue asked as she walked by.
"Where there's a Will," I said,"There's a way."

"Where do I turn?" Kara was driving. I was with her, Ashlin, and Charlie---Most of the members of LHPS.
"The cemetery is on Hill Street."
"Nobody but you and the pizza guy knows where the hell Hill Street is."
"Next right. Up ahead."
"Okay. Where's the cemetery?"
"On the left, just up ahead. Right there."
"I didn't even know there was a cemetery here," commented Charlie. "How did you know?"
"I'm Lou," I said. "I know these things."
Kara turned into Saint Mary's Cemetery and parked near the path. LHPS often held our meetings at Millie's house, right near Sugar Run, and just around the corner from Saint Mary's. So I'd suggested to the team that we take a little field trip before the meeting, and go find a witch's grave.
We climbed out of the car.
"She's in this section, Section Three. Between these two paths." I pointed toward the section, the two grass paths on each side. "Shouldn't be too hard a find; she's with the family, someplace near that mausoleum."
We spread out and began walking north, through the cemetery.
"What was the name?" Charlie asked.
"Mary Craven," I said. "She's with her husband."
Kara looked around. "Teah, Over there. Is that...."
"Yeah, Teah Hospital. We investigated it a couple of years ago. And up in that corner is Luther Shaffer, the guy haunting the old jail we investigated. He was the only guy hung for his crime in Clinton County."
"I don't see---" Ashlin began.
I knelt by a stone. "Here. Over here."
They all ran over to join me. I took a couple of photos of the stone. It was a big one, a monument, with a cross broken off and lying on the top. I was kneeling beside it, running my fingers across the lettering the way I was used to, feeling the letters.
"Mary Craven," I said. "This is her."
"We could read that whole thing if we had some paper and chalk," Kara said.
"Or a mirror," I said. "Or shaving cream."
"Seriously? Shaving cream?"
"You put shaving cream on the thing, and then squeegee it off, and it leaves white letters. Or the mirror, which is better for preservation---You can reflect light and leave the letters in shadow." I looked at Mary's dates, and then her husband's, and then I crawled sideways to look at the dates on the daughters' stones. "Check out the dates. You notice anything, Ashlin?"
Ashlin look at the stones. "They all died first?"
"They did. Her husband and both daughters died before Mary. And that will tell you a lot about where the witch story came from. We tended to be very suspicious of women living alone back then, and Mary was a widow. She lived alone on a huge farm, probably telling people to get off it. The rumor spread that she was a witch."
"I'd probably be cranky, too," admitted Kara.
I stood up. "Thanks for the help, you guys. Let's get back to the meeting."
"Yeah," Ashlin said. "We got snacks.
"Found the witch's grave," I said. "Happy Halloween, you guys."

For Whom The School Bell Tolls

The cemetery didn't look haunted.
It was overcast and windy as I walked up the hill at Saint Agnes Cemetery. I was wearing my blue shirt that showed Bigfoot being abducted by a UFO, and I was looking for a grave.
Vincent Sesto had been shot to death along the railroad tracks in January of 1905. During his funeral, strange things had begun to happen. Items had begun to fall over for no reason near a specific pallbearer, and when they got to the cemetery, one of the straps had wound around the pallbearer's leg, almost pulling him into the grave.
The pallbearer had been Frank Dominick, friend of Sesto's. The ghostly events at the funeral had been enough for the cops to focus on Dominick as a suspect, and place him under arrest. He'd been released, however, when a local attorney tore the case apart in the courtroom.
I was looking for Sesto's grave. Part of the job.
There's not really a word for my job. I'm a paranormal investigator, historian, librarian, and writer in Lock Haven, Pennsylvania. My name is Lou.
Saint Agnes is a mostly Italian cemetery, established by the Catholics. I looked at the map and the list I'd brought along, copied out of the records at the library.
Wow. Look at all the vowels. Let's see....Row nine, about here....Caprio, Scaglione....There. Sesto.
It was a small, unassuming headstone, set down into the ground under a tree. I knelt beside it and took a photo. Then I looked up.
Right over in the next row, about ten feet away, was another stone. It had the name of a man who had been murdered with an axe in 2007.
Two brutal murder victims, buried practically next to each other? No wonder I've been getting reports about this place.
I took photos and readings, then packed my stuff back into my pack. Right across the street was Beth Yehuda, the Jewish cemetery. But that was an adventure for another day.

I've always loved autumn.
It's my favorite time of year. My mother was a teacher, so I grew up around the school system. To some people, autumn seems like the last gasp of summer, the dying before winter, but I've never seen it that way. When the leaves turn colors and the air chills, it feels good, like new beginnings. The start of a new time, with endless possibilities.
I was just between the radio station and the Piper Museum. I handle the artifacts and archives at Piper, and I go on the radio every two weeks to promote local programs. I was walking toward my bike on Main Street when a guy caught up with me.
"You're Lou, aren't you?"
"Yeah, that's me." I get recognized as a local writer about once a day, which is usually positive. Not always. I'd recently had one guy insist I be held responsible for mistakes in a history book I hadn't written, and another guy insist that I'd made a mistake in my column because he personally had been in a building as a child, in 1901. People are weird.
"How come you haven't written about John Wilbanks?"
"Well. Who is John Wilbanks?"
"He was a bell maker from Philadelphia. He had a hand in dealing with the Liberty Bell when it was moved back in the 1800s," the guy said. "He made the bell that replaced the Liberty Bell in the tower, and was supposed to take away the Liberty Bell, but he refused."
"Well, I tend to deal mostly with Clinton County history, sir."
"Ah, that's where the local connection comes in," he said. "You know the bell sitting outside the Robb Elementary School? That one was made by Wilbanks. It has his name right on the side."
"Wait....Seriously? We have a bell in town made by the guy who helped with the Liberty Bell?"
He nodded. "There are only three known Wilbanks bells. As far as I know, nobody's aware of this one."
"I'll check that out, sir. Thanks. I'll see if I can find out more."
"Sorry to interrupt your morning, but...."
"No, it's okay," I said. "For something this good, you can interrupt me anytime you want."

On my way over to the Piper Museum, I deviated just a bit, taking Church Street instead of Bald Eagle Street. I passed in front of Robb Elementary School, and spotted the bell. It was sitting out front, right on display. I'd been past it a million times, and never really noticed it.
I got off my bike and approached it. I was being somewhat cautious; strolling right up to an elementary school isn't always the best plan. Nobody seemed to notice me, so I took out my camera and took photos of it.
I examined the bell. Right along the top, there it was: CAST BY J. WILBANKS. PHILA. 1840.
"Oh....my....god."

I rode my bike through some of the fallen leaves on my way to work at the library. I like to walk in the leaves, drink coffee and cider, wear heavier jackets, find ghosts and monsters. You know. Fall stuff.
My predecessor had told me that most days, she started by checking her e-mail. I have yet to have a day anywhere near that organized, but I got to the e-mail around nine-thirty over a cup of coffee. I was rolling my eyes and reaching for an event form when Zach came back to my desk.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Got an e-mail from an author who wants to promote his book at the library," I said. "The title of his book refers to a prank he played as a child. It's called Muddy Balls."
Zach laughed, and I started laughing, too. He said,"We should be more mature about this."
"We should, but we won't." I said. "I really don't want to have to promote Muddy Balls* on the morning radio."
We both laughed again. I said,"I just hope I don't get in trouble over my handling....of....Muddy Balls."
When we calmed down, which took a while, he said,"You working on anything else as good as that?"
"I'd rather be working on Teen Paranormal," I said. "I have a meeting coming up in a few days. Gonna teach the kids to ghost hunt. In other news, the bell in front of the Robb Elementary School may have a connection to the Liberty Bell. But I can't document that yet. I'm working on it."
I went to work in the Pennsylvania Room, looking in the index for information. Nothing under Wilbanks or Bell---That would be too easy. There were a few things under Robb School, but nothing helpful. Previously, it had been known as the First Ward School, and I checked on that, too.
Painstakingly, I began working up a timeline on that property. It had begun as the courthouse in 1840. A new courthouse had been built in 1867, and the old one turned into the First Ward School. In 1883, that building had been replaced with a newer one. I found an article in 1957 when the school had been entirely rebuilt, and it stated that the bell had been saved from the previous school.
So I could trace the bell back to 1883, so far. Chances are that the bell had been purchased for the new courthouse in 1840, but I couldn't prove that yet.
When I'd exhausted every source I could think of, I went back to planning my program. I began advertising for Muddy Balls.

*Title changed for legal reasons. Shockingly, the real one is even worse.

Monday was September 11. It's been a while since I had to explain to anyone why September 11 is important.
I was at the Piper Museum all day. Every year, I open up for a veterans' group that keeps a flag running through the community all day. Their base for the past couple of years had been the Piper Museum. I got some work done and made some phone calls. When you're in at six AM, you have plenty of time to get stuff done. I didn't even have to go sit in the Cheyenne for some privacy.
Around noon, I walked out to check on the runners. As I was in the parking lot in front of the museum, a guy arrived---Greying hair, dressed in a businesslike way, glasses.
"Joby!" I grinned. Joby is the director of the Lock Haven University library, and a friend of mine. It's always good to see the guy.
"Hi, Lou," said Joby. "I figured I'd stop by and see if I can help out."
"Well, glad you came in. I'm working on a neat one that you might be interested in."
"Tell me about it."
"The bell out in front of Robb Elementary School? It seems to be a Wilbanks bell. John Wilbanks was involved with the Liberty Bell, and I think the Robb bell goes back to the old courthouse. I'm working on proving that."
"That's really interesting. I've gone by that bell plenty of times, and never...."
"Yeah, I never really looked at it, either. But it does have his name on it; I checked."
"So we can assume the bell itself is accurate," mused Joby. "I wonder how you'd go about proving that?"
"I've got a call in to Maria, over at Voter Registration," I said. "She has a lot of the old county documents. I'll be looking through them later."
Joby nodded. "I've never doubted you."

I was in my office that evening when Katelynn and TJ walked in. Both of them are graduates of my Teen Paranormal program, a couple of the brightest kids I've ever taught to be ghost hunters.
"Hi, Lou," said Katelynn. Katelynn has purple hair; she and I had gotten close during the first year I'd run Teen Paranormal. TJ is her younger brother.
"Hey, guys," I said. "Grab a seat. We'll hang out."
"You doing Teen Paranormal again this year?" asked Katelynn.
"We have our first meeting of the season in Thursday," I said. "Hopefully we're getting a bunch of new kids. Feel free to come to a meeting and visit."
Katelynn looked over my shoulder at the computer screen. "What're you working on?"
"These are scans of old county records from the 1840s. Meetings and decisions from when the county was first founded. My friend Maria sent them to me. I'm trying to find mentions to buying a bell for the courthouse."
"Okay, that sounds fun. How come?"
"Work with me here. The courthouse started on Church Street, and then in 1867 a new one was built on Water Street. The old courthouse became the first Robb Elementary School. I'm trying to track down references to the bell out front, because it may have been made by John Wilbanks, a guy who had connections to the Liberty Bell."
"You know, my life's gotten a little more interesting since I met you," she said.
"My working theory is that the bell was purchased by the county commissioners in 1840, when the courthouse was built," I said. "Or maybe John Moorhead; he was the guy they hired to build it, and he may have bought a Wilbanks bell."
"I forget....Have you taught me about John Moorhead?"
"Maybe. Moorhead was, essentially, Clinton County's first big loser. He ran for office several times, and never got the votes. He built a courthouse when the county was founded, and offered it to the commissioners. They turned him down, saying they wanted to build a new courthouse on land donated by town founder Jerry Church. And then they hired Moorhead to design and build the new one. You find an 1833 dictionary, look up Loser, and there's Moorhead's lithograph beside it."
"You've been busy."
"I'm looking at these records, and I've even contacted the American Bell Association, which is apparently a thing."
"What are you going to do when you can prove it?"
"I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead yet."
I looked at my e-mail. I had a message.
"Ah, here's a message from Joby. Seems he's looked into this a little since I talked to him today. He says to check the Lock Haven Express from April 30, 1960."
Katelynn nodded. "You gonna do it?"
"As soon as I can."

When I got back to the library in the morning, the first thing I did was have a cup of coffee. I sent in an article about a 1911 fight between neighbors to the Express, entitled The First Ward War. Then I printed up an event poster and hung it on the bulletin board.
Zach saw me hanging the poster in the lobby.
"Muddy balls?" he asked.
I nodded. "Muddy Balls."
With all that done, I went to the microfilm. The nice thing about what I do is that I can write pretty much anything off as work product. If I feel like looking at the old newspapers out of sheer personal curiosity, nobody ever thinks twice about it. I put in the roll for 1960 and ran through it.
I found it on the front page---A photo of the bell.The article detailed that the bell had been saved from the old courthouse, which proved my theory.
I got my cell phone out of my pack and called Katelynn. "Hey, kid. I think I found the proof on that bell. The Robb bell is from the old courthouse."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yep. Got a newspaper article documenting it. The going price for a Wilbanks bell seems to be four hundred dollars---That's what he was paid for the Liberty Bell job---And the old records show a courthouse construction payment to Moorhead for four hundred exactly. I can make a good case that was the bell."
"Well, cool," said Katelynn. "What're you going to do now? Write an article about it?"
"Probably. It'll make a good one."

My name is Lou. I live in Lock Haven, and I'm a historian, freelance writer, and paranormal investigator. I've gotten pretty lucky....Mainly, my career is being me.
I stood in front of the Sloan Room in the library, facing the kids. Five of them. Meridian, Seth, Skylar, Olivia, and Brayden. The newest formation of Teen Paranormal.
"Thanks for being here, guys," I said. "Welcome to Teen Paranormal. My name is Lou, and I'm the guy who will teach you how to investigate."
Seth raised his hand. "If we're good at this, do we get to join the Lock Haven Paranormal Seekers?"
I smiled. "LHPS members have to be over eighteen, but when we need somebody new, we do draw from the graduates of Teen Paranormal, yes. I'll be teaching you how to investigate ghosts, monsters, and UFOs over the next year. For right now, we're going to start with property research---How to find the history of a haunted house."
I passed the kids their handouts. "I'm going to teach you how to find out who lived in the house, who died there, when it was built. And then, how to investigate it. And by the time I'm done, you'll be as good at this as I am." I looked around the room, and smiled. "Welcome to paranormal investigation."