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.