Synergeist: The Haunted Cubicle (13 page)

Whenever I take up a newspaper, I seem to see Ghosts gliding between the lines. There must be Ghosts all the country over, as thick as the sand of the sea.... We are, one and all, so pitifully afraid of the light.

—
From
Ghosts
by HENRIK IBSEN

Saturday morning Martin lounged on his thrift-store couch in his plaid flannel lounge pants and large “Programmers do IT better” t-shirt reading more about what Einstein called “spooky action at a distance,” quantum entanglement, and the theory of hidden nonlocal variables. He found the notion that there could exist a simultaneous superluminal connection between all points in space interesting and mind boggling, but not useful.

He wanted practical information on how to talk to, and otherwise care for, ghosts: the sort of article that appeared monthly in men’s and women’s magazines in reference to the other gender. The more scientific articles never approached the subject, and the others just seemed ridiculous. Why would a ghost care if you were wearing loose clothing or had consumed caffeine? He wasn’t giving up his morning Red Bull for anything. He decided he was on his own. If there were any real information out there, he would never be able to tell the signal from the noise.

Not sure what to do with himself, he rattled around in his apartment, wondering if he should get out and do something. He did housework and laundry, but the cave seemed exceptionally empty and lonely. So he did what he usually did when he felt empty and alone, he fired up his game console and immersed himself in a post-apocalyptic wasteland.

Sometime late in the evening, amid the bleak, de-saturated ruins of an irradiated office building, Martin pillaged a floor full of grimy cubicles, opening desks and filing cabinets, searching for loot, when what he thought was a body came to life and attacked him. His subconscious seized this inspiration and spit out a solution. No one would try to move into Millie’s cubicle if they thought someone was already occupying it. He had a mission for the next day: Occupy Millie’s Cube.

If dreams are like movies, then memories are films about ghosts.

—
From “Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby” by Adam Duritz

The soul-sucking monster knew she was watching! Shocked and frightened, she withdrew her view to a point that would be about eye level, directly above the chair in her cubicle. She focused just inside the partitions of her office and rotated her gaze around the point like the beacon of a lighthouse, scanning for the demon. Panic and fear held her tight, obscuring her thoughts. Like a cornered mouse anticipating the cat’s pounce, she waited. It occurred to her that it could come from above or below as well, so she rotated her view around all three axes in what would have been vertigo-inducing gyrations if she still possessed inner ears.

Could it find her? Would her field be strong enough if it did? What would she do if it weren’t? Make a choice? Run? Run where? Hide? Hide where? Fight? How?

These thoughts rotated through her mind at a dizzying rate, each one its own car on a lunatic tilt-a-whirl. Eventually, the crazy carousel slowed. Enough time had passed that it should have been upon her if it was coming, unless it took the bus. She wanted to extend the focus of her vigil, but she was more afraid of finding it than of not knowing where it was.

How did that work, sensing her gaze? Perhaps it was the Observer Effect in action. It had a simple logic to it. If the act of observation on a system had an effect on it, then perhaps that effect could be detected. She reran the flawless memory of the encounter through her mind.

At the time she thought it was only the coming toward her that caused her to realize the beast detected her gaze. Now she knew that she also sensed it, much like that “hair standing up on the back of your neck” feeling people got when someone was watching them. Perhaps the two were the same.

No one watched her now. She would have felt the gaze. But that didn’t mean it didn’t have a means to track her. She stopped her wild visual sweeps and felt for eyes on her. Could the thing find her without looking at her? Who knew what tricks this otherworldly predator might have?

Being Saturday, there was no one in the office nearby. She watched, contemplated her fate, and listened to the twin siren songs of creation as they called to her. Feeling for eyes became a subconscious burglar alarm. Extended survival as a ghost seemed more unlikely than ever. Only the prospect of communicating with Martin kept her from giving up and choosing.

She no longer slept, sleep being a biological function, but sometime in the night her mind slipped into a meditative state. The world in her mind and the world she watched switched places. The vivid memories that flowed unbidden like random home movie clips became reality. She did not choose them. They chose themselves.
Millicent Able, this is your life.

A birthday party in which she had received a giant 120 pack of crayons and Jimmy who had lived over the back fence threw up birthday cake all over her friend Katie.

“
Don’t worry dear.”

Dozing in the back of the car as they drove to Grandmother’s house, the drone of the engine and the murmur of her parent’s voices.

“
Sleep tight.”

She was in her first drawing class in which they drew a nude male, the embarrassment, and the smell of charcoal. She had been too flummoxed to do much of anything. Katie drew a perfectly rendered phallus.

“
No one can stop us!”

Bulldozers growled as they pushed over trees in the Amazon with voices shouting in unison over the ugly noise.

“
Stop crucifying the Rainforest!”

The night full of tears and hugs when Katie told her she was moving to Chicago.

“
We’ll keep in touch.”

William Catner and her curled up on the sofa, keeping each other warm and watching
Doctor Who
.

“
I’m here; can’t you see me?”

She was eating strawberries on a deck overlooking the ocean with calypso music in the background, the sun warming the back of her neck, and the sea breeze cooling it.

“
Don’t worry; be happy.”

Then she was serving cake at an office celebration. Martin was next in line.

“
Millie?”

I knew her for a little ghost

That in my garden walked;

The wall is high—higher than most—

And the green gate is locked.

—
From “The Little Ghost” by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sunday was best for this type of covert mission. Especially before noon, there was nobody in the office. Martin began planning and gathering the ingredients in the morning. He searched the corporate registry for an employee in his group he knew to be strictly work-from-home: Yolanda Westridge. He found her Facebook page and snagged pictures of her, her significant other, and her kids. He sized and printed these to fit in standard frame sizes. Then he put them in his old briefcase and headed for the office. On the way he stopped by the pharmacy just outside his apartment complex and bought picture frames. He also stopped at the “Jesus is Lord Thrift Store,” which oddly enough was open on Sunday, and picked up a couple of ladies’ sweaters and a couple of coffee cups.

Once at the office, he put the pictures in the frames, stuffed the briefcase with papers from the trash can beside the Dais of Digital Duplication, and raided the supply closet for the usual desk supplies: stapler, pens, pencils, and tape dispenser. He loaded all the stuff in an empty copy paper box along with a couple of old programming books from his shelf.

He started the word processing program on his computer. He typed “Yolanda Westridge” in large letters across the page and sent it to the Petulant Print Purveyor across from his cube. It moaned to life like a teenager early on a Saturday morning. When it was awake enough to start working, it spit out the print. He retrieved it and added it to the box.

The next item he felt a little guilty about, but he did it anyway. After debating it with himself a while, he went to Don’s cubicle, checked to see no one was around, and fired up his computer. Everyone with half a brain knew Don’s password, he yelled
Roll Tide
whenever he logged in. It was just a matter of trying a few variations before he was logged in. Once logged in to Don’s computer, he performed a remote login to one of the Unix machines. Don had written the root password to the server on his dry erase board in a last act of defiance. Don’s manager was in Texas and the HR flunky that handled his “transition” had no idea what a root password was. He shouldn’t have done that. There was no telling what someone might do with it. Martin noted the password and erased it.

Once logged in, he spoofed an email to Millie’s group from Yolanda Westridge. In it he assured them that she would not disturb their group and that she would only be working at night on server maintenance that could not be done from home outside the firewall. The Subject read: “Fwd: Employee Cubicle.” Below the message he added forwarded emails that appeared to be from Yolanda’s boss and the building property manager, arranging the workspace assignment. Martin covered his trail well. If anyone ever did try to track it down they would only find what server it came from and that someone logged into it from Don’s computer as root. Since Martin didn’t have his own account and was not supposed to have the root password on the server, they would never be able to trace it to him. Martin wasn’t one of those people who were comfortable doing anything they could get away with. Prisons, governments, and corporate executive suites were full of such, but he wasn’t one of them. He felt like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar even though no one would ever know. But all this harmed nobody, even if it was against the rules, and he was beginning to feel strongly that he was truly in contact with Millie’s ghost, even if there were still skeptical thoughts bouncing around in his head as well.

He securely erased his files and all the logs from Don’s computer then turned it off. He went back to his desk for the box and then headed to Millie’s office. Approaching cautiously, he circled the area to be sure no one was around. Confident no one was there; he set the box on the end of the desk and proceeded to make the space look lived in.