by Eric Magnuson<\/p>\n
Until eleven months ago, I\u2019d seen what I\u2019ll hesitantly call ghosts on seven occasions, beginning at age four and returning sporadically through sophomore year at the university, nearly two decades ago. Eleven months ago, however, I met a bearded, copper-haired man named Alexander Pennings.<\/p>\n
Pennings came with much notoriety. He\u2019d written a small library of books on others\u2019 experiences with the paranormal. He regularly appeared as an expert on ghosts in numerous film and television documentaries of dubious nature. There were the newspaper articles — usually local publications or laughable magazines about the supernatural that featured spectral women in period dress or \u201chaunted\u201d houses on their cover pages — but he did somehow warrant a Times<\/em> profile when these na\u00efve ghost-chaser programs became strangely popular, even among the college-educated. The legitimate papers invariably documented the little respect he received from his colleagues at our university, especially noting their disdain for his tenured professorship and continued funding for work they deem \u201cunserious\u201d and \u201clowbrow entertainment.\u201d Then there are details that are often included merely to give readers something shocking — and most likely apocryphal — to believe he\u2019s a madman: the somewhat mundane event that Pennings experienced as a child at his grandfather\u2019s Iowa City soybean farm, which led him into these studies; the allegations that he\u2019s drugged a handful of the people he\u2019s interviewed; but most absurdly, there is the rumor — which is taken far too seriously, even among my own associates in the history department — that the man himself is a ghost.<\/p>\n Despite working for the same public university since I arrived here four years ago, I\u2019d never met the man. Nor had I even seen him in person.<\/p>\n Not that I wished to meet Pennings. I am, by most accounts, I believe, I hope, something of a reasonable man. I\u2019ve written the first extensive history on the Battle of the Red Earth Reservation. I\u2019ve published in all of the important journals, The Journal of American History<\/em>, The American Historical Review<\/em>, WMQ<\/em>, and so on. In other words, I\u2019ve done what I can to become a tenured professor at the university — though the internal politics on this campus keep holding me back for whatever inane reason. Perhaps it\u2019s the peculiar relationship that this university has with the state\u2019s Native American population — more specifically, the Takota, from the Red Earth Reservation. But that\u2019s something else entirely. I don\u2019t think this — I\u2019ll call it an \u201coversight\u201d — has anything to do with my embarrassing ghost stories. I stopped telling even my friends about these unexplainable experiences of mine not long after my undergraduate studies concluded. I then avoided telling them as a PhD candidate and during my post-doctoral research as well. My wife knew nothing of them when we were married — she\u2019s since only heard them on nights where we\u2019ve been slightly, well, incapacitated. But even as an undergraduate, I only elaborated on them to my closest associates, those who would go on to be my closest associates more than ten years after. So it was those decade-long friends that proved detrimental to my entire well-being so many years later:<\/p>\n Because, well, I suppose I should elaborate a bit more on what I mean by \u201cincapacitated.\u201d I\u2019m afraid to say that there are times when it\u2019s late at night, and the cocktail party\u2019s grown quiet and we\u2019ve drank far too much — at least I\u2019ve drunk far too much — and we\u2019re at the point where everything is poured straight over the ice without mixer and everybody\u2019s gotten perhaps a little too loose with whatever is on their minds, and I might be coaxed along by one or two of these old friends to divulge these paranormal stories as something of a party trick — to playfully frighten others when the lights go down. Or perhaps I just let myself publicly believe in them when I\u2019m drunk. Either way, the last night that I detailed these experiences was — somewhat obviously — at the end of a cool and late October evening.<\/p>\n By the beginning of the new year, Pennings had learned that a reasonable man on campus believed he\u2019d seen ghosts.<\/p>\n Pennings first emailed me in January. I immediately wondered which of those inexplicable friends of mine relayed my strange history to Pennings but rather than turn annoyed or angry, I realized that it must have been one of those strangers at the party. I\u2019ll assume this anyway in order to avoid a fracas. No matter. I brushed off his first request to meet. Then a follow-up email arrived, which I not only disregarded but deleted before finishing. And in February there was a voicemail, which I promptly erased. And then a second, and somehow we\u2019d missed each other\u2019s paths so often that there was a third and fourth. Ridiculously, I began considering the rumor that Pennings truly was a ghost.<\/p>\n This continued until the first week of this past April, when I opened my history department door and was taken by surprise by Pennings himself. He stood at least seven inches taller than I. His copper beard was somehow both natty and unkempt. His skin was sickly pale. And he likely had freckles but they were difficult to discern from behind the beard. He also wore a ridiculous black overcoat that hung off of him like a cape. He was, in many ways, a caricature of himself.<\/p>\n Pennings told me that he was happy to have finally bumped into me, which was laughable considering that he was standing outside of my door, waiting for me to exit. Knowing immediately who he was, I did what I could to appear busy. I hurriedly walked down the musty university hallway, saying that I was running late and that, perhaps, he might try calling or emailing me later in the week. I told him that email was best but he immediately called my bluff, saying he already tried for not just weeks but months to reach me. \u201cDo you have a class to teach right now?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cMr. Pennings,\u201d I said, \u201cI\u2019m really not interested in talking about ghosts with you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo it\u2019s true then,\u201d he said. \u201cYou have had these experiences.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMr. Pennings.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPlease, call me Alex.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMr. Pennings, whatever I saw happened so long ago. It could have been anything, which was probably nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know Dr. Witting,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m actually good friends with him.\u201d<\/p>\n And I stopped at this odd detour to my department chair\u2019s name.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat does that have to do with anything?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDespite the reputation you might think I have, I have a good standing with Dr. Witting. He secretly likes the work I do. He\u2019s a closet connoisseur of the paranormal — at least if it has historical context, like the Confederates still haunting Gettysburg for instance.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m still not following you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m told that you\u2019ve had some trouble getting tenure here.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI barely remember what I saw, Pennings.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t believe you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut I thought you believed everything that people told you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd maybe you just get drunk and tell lies.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cExcuse me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA man who invents stories when he\u2019s drunk because he lacks the ethics or wherewithal to abide by the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n In twenty minutes I was sitting with Alexander Pennings in the quietest corner of a shabby Mediterranean restaurant off campus.<\/p>\n * * *<\/p>\n Pennings rested a digital recorder on the wooden table and said, \u201cDo you mind if I record our conversation?\u201d<\/p>\n I was obviously apprehensive. I didn\u2019t trust the man. But I felt somewhat cornered. To give myself some traction, I said, \u201cNot quite. Let\u2019s talk a little bit first. I\u2019d like to know why you\u2019re so intent on speaking to me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m eager to speak with anyone who\u2019s had a paranormal experience. They can be difficult to find,\u201d he said. \u201cMany people are like you. They don\u2019t want to return phone calls in these matters. The ones who immediately call you back, or seek you out first, often saw their doors blown shut by the wind. The people who truly have these experiences often hide it. They begin pretending it never happened. But as they bury this down deeper and deeper, the more they actually believe it did happen. They torment themselves. I\u2019m sure you\u2019ve had many frustrated nights in the dark. It\u2019s common. But I find that when people finally do open up with these stories, they feel somewhat relieved.\u201d<\/p>\n The introduction sounded oddly rehearsed, as if he\u2019d said the same thing over innumerable lunches.<\/p>\n \u201cSo you think you can set me free from my personal demons?\u201d I said. \u201cI didn\u2019t know that you were also a psychologist.\u201d<\/p>\n He laughed. And while I tried building this wall between us, the thought of speaking did sound appealing. I hadn\u2019t told these stories while sober in more than a decade. I didn\u2019t know what would happen if I did tell him about my experiences.<\/p>\n \u201cBut what do you plan to do with my stories?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cRight now,\u201d he said, \u201cI don\u2019t know. It greatly depends on what you have to tell me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWill you tell anybody else about them?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDo you want me to tell anybody?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOf course not,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cThen I won\u2019t tell anyone we ever met.\u201d<\/p>\n Pennings\u2019s surrender seemed oddly swift. Somebody in his field surely needed a name attached to their subjects. To have no name only made it easier to discredit the stories that made him so infamous. But then again, he already lacked so much credibility within the academic community.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat if I also say \u2018no\u2019 to the recorder?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cThen it won\u2019t be recorded.\u201d<\/p>\n Again, very peculiar. What could he be getting at? I wondered. He held no notebook nor pen that I could see. And he never maneuvered to pull one from his ridiculous overcoat.<\/p>\n \u201cTell me, Pennings. What\u2019s the real reason you sought me out?\u201d<\/p>\n And for the first time that afternoon, he began to look somewhat uneasy, as if his script ran out. He reverted to what he already said: \u201cI try speaking to anyone who\u2019s had these experiences.\u201d And he thought for a moment, collecting what he may. \u201cThis will be a casual conversation between us. If we choose to, we\u2019ll have a more academic study later on. But for now, we\u2019re having a conversation that will never be heard again.\u201d<\/p>\n After thinking to myself for a moment and sipping from my water, I began to tell him what I believe I\u2019ve seen.<\/p>\n First: \u201cWhen I was four-years-old, I awoke to see a large Native American man standing at the end of my bed. He did not speak. Nor did he move. He then disappeared.\u201d<\/p>\n Second: \u201cMonths later, my mother and I heard voices in our basement. They were foreign. Or, more likely, indigenous. Years later, when I asked my mother about them, she said, \u2018Oh, you mean the Indian ladies? They had a good time in that basement, didn\u2019t they?\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n Third: \u201cAt five-years-old, I was alone in my grandfather\u2019s basement. A light flashed off and on in front of me. A chair in the next room moved.\u201d<\/p>\n Fourth: \u201cAt ten-years-old, I heard furious typing at the computer keyboard in the next room as I studied. I peeked my head inside to find the room empty.\u201d<\/p>\n Fifth: \u201cStanding outside of a friend\u2019s house when I was sixteen, I saw an old man staring at me from a second-floor window. He was bearded. I later asked my friend if her dad was home. She said no. I said that I\u2019d seen a man upstairs. She told me, without humor, \u2018You saw one of the house\u2019s ghosts.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n Sixth: \u201cDuring freshman year at the university, I awoke in my bedroom with everything bathed in a foggy teal glow. I turned over and saw a young girl looking out my window. She smiled. I somehow fell back to sleep.\u201d<\/p>\n Seventh: \u201cI was violently shaken awake from a nap at my parents\u2019 house. When I opened my eyes, I saw an orange blur floating away from me. Then I saw nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat should be everything,\u201d I said. \u201cWill that be good enough?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd you believe, without any doubts, that these were paranormal experiences?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOff the record?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOf course.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOff the record to the point that this lunch never happened?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure. Sure.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThen, yes, I suppose I do.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy do you have no doubts?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBecause they\u2019re the things that I saw. I don\u2019t doubt my memory. Especially when it\u2019s something mildly traumatic like this.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd you consider yourself a reasonable, logical man, correct?\u201d<\/p>\n I was slightly offended by this. Of course, I did. \u201cMr. Pennings, I didn\u2019t come down here to eat a soggy gyro and be offended by a man in a cape.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI meant no offense,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m just asking in order to piece everything together.\u201d<\/p>\n I gave in to this. He seemed sincere.<\/p>\n \u201cThen, yes,\u201d I said. \u201cI consider myself reasonable. Logical.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd I assume that you trust in science?\u201d<\/p>\n Admittedly, this is not where I predicted his line of questioning would run. I assumed that I\u2019d regale him with these stories that by then were cheapened by the fact that I\u2019d told them so many times that I didn\u2019t even need to think about which words to put emphasis on anymore, and that he\u2019d be happy and we\u2019d be on with our days never to speak again. This was turning far more philosophical than I believed Alexander Pennings ever ventured to be, especially considering that the last television program I saw him appear on utilized a smoke machine to almost comic effect.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t even bother asking most people that question,\u201d he said, leaning back into his chair. His long coat wrinkled on the floor. \u201cWhen I meet them I generally see that they fear God in one way or another. So instead, I ask them, \u2018Are you a religious person?\u2019 And they invariably say, \u2018Yes, they are.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n He sighed and let the conversation hang there, as if I knew where to pick it up. My mouth was full of lamb meat. Fortunately, he continued.<\/p>\n \u201cSo after my line of questioning is through,\u201d he said, now leaning over his untouched plate, \u201cI go around the house and I basically tell them, Well, I\u2019m sorry, but there appears to be a breeze coming through here. Or we have an electrician come and the problem is fixed. I\u2019m basically an overseer of handymen. As long as we\u2019re off the record here, I\u2019ll leave that off the table as well. As for the incidents that you may have seen on the television programs I\u2019ve hosted or appeared on, those are merely the cases that couldn\u2019t feasibly be witnessed by an unbiased party. They are the things that we cannot prove or disprove, meaning: We do not need any real proof of them. So we recreate them for television with actors and special effects. It\u2019s obviously not something that I\u2019m proud of, but does anybody actually make money from something that they\u2019re proud of anymore?\u201d<\/p>\n It was over the course of our conversation that I realized that Pennings was completely unsure of what he was studying. He told me that nearly everything he\u2019d found in the past three decades could be explained in one way or another. Faulty wiring. An undiscovered breeze. Plumbing so old that it now made the pipes speak. Most of the people he\u2019d interviewed over the years were likely to believe anything they\u2019d heard, and a great percentage of those merely liked the idea that it was ghosts that produced their little oddities. Pennings, it turned out, was looking for a reasonable man to tell him that he was not wasting his life on a ludicrous search for the paranormal. But like the good academic nobody any longer made him out to be, he would not part with a false positive. He began to ask questions that made me feel uncomfortable and, for the first time in years, somewhat infantile.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you believe in God?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSometimes though?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot really. If I do, it\u2019s brief.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd you take it back afterwards?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI suppose so. If I actually think about it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo you\u2019d consider yourself an atheist?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI generally tell people I\u2019m agnostic.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut you\u2019re not so sure?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIs any agnostic?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFunny. Humor. I\u2019m glad we\u2019re moving along. But tell me, does your agnosticism believe in an afterlife?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell,\u201d and this was the perplexing thing that I didn\u2019t wish to think about. Because, frankly, I didn\u2019t believe in an afterlife. But I also honestly believed that I\u2019d seen these things, felt these things that are popularly believed to be the lore of what only happens after death. \u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cI do not.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo what do you think happens after we die?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know. I have no idea. Most likely nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIs that worrisome?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot knowing?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. That it could be absolutely nothing?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s not a great feeling,\u201d I admitted. He stared at me inquisitively across the table.<\/p>\n \u201cIs it more than a worry?\u201d he asked. \u201cDo you fear it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI really don\u2019t know how this matters to your work.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPlease. It matters a great deal, actually.\u201d<\/p>\n I still didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you fear death?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cSure. I suppose. I think I\u2019m allowed that from time to time.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut tell me. How do you reconcile your belief in ghosts with your belief that nothing happens after death?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know. None of it makes sense to me, really. I know what I\u2019ve seen. My memory\u2019s never failed me. But I also have no hard evidence that anything happens after death.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDo you think it\u2019s possible that you conjure these ghosts and hold onto their memories because you fear death? That perhaps you let your mind imagine them because you want there to be something to come after life?\u201d<\/p>\n I stopped eating and looked at Pennings for a long time, not saying anything while I considered what this meant to me. We had very little else to say during our lunch. We left knowing that we\u2019d likely never see each other again.<\/p>\n And now, everything is ghosts.<\/p>\n ERIC MAGNUSON <\/strong>is a freelance writer based in the United States. His fiction has appeared in The Los Angeles Review<\/em> and Stumble Magazine<\/em>. His journalism has been published by numerous magazines, including Rolling Stone<\/em>, The Nation<\/em>, and Spin<\/em>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" by Eric Magnuson Until eleven months ago, I\u2019d seen what I\u2019ll hesitantly call ghosts on seven occasions, beginning at age four and returning sporadically through sophomore year at the university, nearly two decades ago. Eleven months ago, however, I met … Continue reading