Gerald C. Matics -- Author

Copyright © 2007 by Gerald C. Matics

 

Franklin Field was haunted, the homeless man told Sarah.  But was it the Founding Father's spirit, or something entirely different?

 

     "What I'm about to tell you don't go no further, you hear?" the wild-haired bum demanded.  "I mean, you can write about it, but don't say it was me told you.  People think I'm crazy enough already.  Well, I ain't — at least, not much."

     He looked away, and Sarah Evermann studied him.  He appeared to be in his middle forties.  Dirt encrusted the lines on his thin face, which was dominated by a bulbous nose.  A filthy trench coat covered a t-shirt that might have been white once, and green work pants that had seen better days; one scrawny knee poked through a hole in the threadbare fabric.  His grimy loafers looked to be held together by dirty thoughts alone.  Sarah, reared in affluence in the Main Line suburbs of Philadelphia, wondered fleetingly what could bring a human being so low.

     Then she noticed him staring at her bare legs, and she wished again that she hadn't worn a skirt, at least not one so short.  But it was all she'd had to put on after track practice — twelve quarter-miles at a brisk pace today, quite challenging; Coach Shackles would have given her his trademark "Fantastamagorical!" had he shown up — and she hadn't expected to be interviewing a bum here in the bleachers, anyway.  She was always making stupid decisions like this, she realized too late, going places and doing things she shouldn't do alone.  It was bound to catch up with her someday.

     Damned paranormal studies class.  Maybe it was one of the more popular classes at the University of Pennsylvania, but it had developed into a gigundo pain in the ass.  It had been Professor Rawlings' idea to search for the ghost, and Rawlings who'd tipped her to the strange little homeless man at Franklin Field who was most likely to have seen it up close.  Probably she shouldn't have agreed, even though the professor assured her he was harmless, but the extra credit would more than make up for the lousy grade she'd gotten on that last paper.

     "Give me eyewitness accounts, Sarah," the professor had admonished her earlier, perched primly behind his desk in his brown tweed sport coat and pretentious vest.  "No 'some say the ghost this-or-that.'  I'm talking credible accounts, not frat boys high on mary jane."  He held a lighter to his pipe as he spoke, apparently oblivious to the irony.

     "But you have to give me someplace to start, a hint, something," she pleaded.  "I mean, I could run into a dozen people who say they've seen it between now and dinner, but there's no way to know if they're telling the truth."

     "Yes, I can see how that might be a problem," Professor Rawlings said after a moment, finally getting his pipe smoldering to his satisfaction.  "It seems quite fashionable these days to claim a sighting of Benjamin Franklin's ghost."  He leaned back in his desk chair, puffing like a choo-choo.  "If I were you, I'd start with the campus police, see if they've taken any reports about it.  Then you might want to check out some of the older buildings on campus, talk to the janitors, the housekeeping staff.  Ghosts often seem to reveal themselves to night workers."

     "Wait, wait," Sarah said, scribbling furiously in her notebook.

     "And above all, Ms. Evermann, I advise you to take this project seriously — not like that last assignment.  Paranormal science is a science, first and foremost.  Your unbelief showed through quite clearly."

     "But Professor — "

     "There's nothing wrong with a healthy skepticism, of course.  As long as you also keep an open mind."  Professor Rawlings sat up straight again.  "Okay, now, off with you.  You have an assignment to complete, I have to prepare for 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.'"

     Sarah stood and gathered her books.  "Oh, is that playing somewhere?"

     "Why, yes, dear, right here on campus.  Surely you know I'm a faculty adviser to the theater troupe?"

     "No, I don't think I knew that, actually."

     "We have a great time," he said, lighting up.  "The acting, the make-up, the costumes.  The theater's chock-full of ghost stories, you know, particularly Shakespeare — "

     "Yes, well, I'll have to catch a performance sometime," Sarah cut him off, opening the office door.  "See you later, Professor.  And thanks."

     "Of course.  Oh wait, one more thing."

     Sarah paused, surreptitiously glancing at her watch.  Coach Shackles would be pissed if she were late for practice again. . . .