CASE LOG #76. FILED UNDER “STANDARD(?) PHENOMENA; RESIDENTIAL.”

CALL TO ACTION: “AAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!!! Gilmore! please help! I have a sewing machine that belonged to my great-great-grandmother and it recently started running but it wasn't even plugged in! I'm afraid whatever's controlling it might find the chainsaw next!” - from N/A

BEGIN LOG TRANSCRIPT.

Until recently, I would not consider calls like these worth noting. With all the people believing in the paranormal these days, one would be hard-pressed to find a household where Something was not Happening. Belief powers action. Apparitions thrive on action, particularly when someone is watching. In recent years, I have noted a rise in what I call “drive-by-hauntings,” where a ghost will, for example, send a chill up a spine, cause minor electrical surges, slap someone’s—well.

These kind of hauntings are brief, and harmless. Just benign apparitions doing benign apparition things. As for N/A’s “chainsaw,” rest assured “chainsaws” are far outside an apparition’s field of forte (see: Evidence Files; Category, Weapons; Subcategory, Monster Hunter.”

But back to my original:

Until recently, I would not consider calls like these worth noting.

After recently, I consider everything worth noting.

It was raining when I arrived at N/A’s garage (where they requested I enter). Droplets smudged my glasses. With one hand, I took them off and polished them on my sweater. With the other, I clutched the handle of my briefcase.

“Oh!” said N/A, when they saw me. “Detective Gilmore? I-is it really you?” Things clattered off a long work table, things like glue and pencils and nails. “Sorry, I would have cleaned up, I just—didn’t expect you so soon, after—well, it’s just, your last log…”

I adjusted my glasses, embarrassed. “Oh, yes, about that,” I said. “Sorry,” I said. “Silly of me, really, but I’m afraid the recorder slipped out of my hand and,” I said. I waved. “Coffee.”

N/A stared.

“Where is the sewing machine?” I prompted. They led me to it. They hadn’t lied. It was old, came on its own wrought iron stand and everything. I laid my briefcase on the floor, opened it, slid my gloves onto my fingers, inspected the sewing machine.

N/A stared.

Eventually, I straightened up. “Unfortunately,” I said, trying not to sound too disappointed. “Nothing seems out of the ordinary.”

“W-really?”

“Afraid s—”

A whirring, and the needle began to Kr-SHUNK Kr-SHUNK Kr-SHUNK, up and down, up and down, all on its own, no electricity present or required.

N/A stared. I, too, would have been thrilled, were it not for the fact that I was already wearing my glasses.

“Frank,” I said. “Cut that out. This is serious.”

“Frank” pouted. The machine stopped. “Frank”’s hands signed J-O-K-E. (Rudimentary, but. We’re learning as hard as we can).

J-O-K-E, however, is a proper description for Case #76; a total bust. After giving my condolences to N/A on their failed haunting and saying, “If you see anything else, don’t hesitate to write,” I packed up my briefcase. “Frank” appeared in the passenger seat of my car, parked on the curb. It was a nice house, N/A’s. Pleasant. Suburbian. Normal.

As we drove away, during one last look in the rearview mirror, a single colored light glinted from the garage, like it was watching me, following me. My imagination, of course. Nothing of note.

Everything of note.

“Frank,” I said. “Make a memo. Pink one, this time.” All this excitement, my toes are constantly wiggling—I can barely drive. Something Big will arrive, any second now. I can smell it on the air, like cool rain.

END OF TRANSCRIPT.

Got a case for Detective Gilmore? Send your call to action to gilmoresghosts@gmail.com