Edinburgh Journal, April 22, 2016 -- Museum of Childhood, Caz, Sylvia, Haggis

My feet, hips, and lower back are killing me, but I had a great time today. I got to meet Caz at last, and she's lovely. She's been all over the world (originally from New Zealand), putting my travelling to shame. She had a degree in advertising, and works for a well-known online company, managing their social media presence. She also has fantastic hair, coloured in varying degrees of purple and blue. I wish I could get away with that!

We met at the Museum of Childhood, which was cool. I saw a few toys and other items new to me, and the lady there gave us a good impromptu history lesson on the Queen's childhood doll house. There was a replica, which many girls of the time period had, thinking it was the same as Princess Elizabeth's, but it turns out that she had the real thing -- not a doll house, but a miniature play house, with working plumbing, electricity, etc. It would have been a wonderful thing to see, but it no longer exists!

There was an original Punch and Judy set, with dolls! Yes, I realise those were meant for everyone, and not just kids, but it's still a neat thing to see. They were in excellent condition. There were also some pay machines like the ones that debuted in Blackpool fairs in the 19th century. One was a Sweeney Todd murder scene... great for kids! Another I liked what a "haunted house" scene with moving skeletons, ghosts, etc. It would have been a scary thing for children to see back in that time period, and awe-inspiring, in terms of mechanics, for adults. We spent a good amount of time talking about the artistry of the doll houses, and other toys. It's really become a lost artform with mass production.

After that, we went to the Toll House and People's Museum -- very interesting, I highly recommend it --, then to the Edinburgh Museum, where we got kicked out at five by a rather rude attendant. Some other ladies, non-English speaking, were trying to ask him a question and he muttered something quickly, leaving them totally confused. Caz was nice enough to actually answer their question properly.

Oh, before that we had lunch and I had haggis for the first time! It was like a soft, spicy sausage. Actually, I like it much better than regular sausage despite the offals. I may have it again before I leave. No neeps (turnips), though, thanks! I'll just stick with the potatoes.

Caz wanted to bring me to a yarn place close by, but we were... sidetracked. We went down Whitehorse Close, which was once used a stables for Queen Victoria's horses, and stopped to take pictures. There was a pretty little door surrounded by ivy, and as I went to take a photo, the door opened. Out came an older lady -- about 75? - with grey hair pinned up in loops on the sides of her head. She wore a dress, a turtleneck sweater, a scarf, and two aprons. There were two cotton, floral arm guards from her wrists to her elbows. She wore "witch's shoes," and held a pot of milky liquid and a bottle of something else.

She started talking to us immediately and explained that she was making a varnish to polish wooden box for her grandchild's christening. She invited us inside to show us what she was doing. We stepped inside and WOW! Every inch of her house was covered in artwork of some kind. Sketches hanging, patchwork on the furniture, paintings everywhere, flower presses on doors, tile work on the floors -- it was never ending. She was an incredible artist! Even the windows and walls were covered in flower motifs -- real, anatomically correct flowers, that you'd see in botany journals. She showed us her clothes hangers -- each one was different. She'd created a doll house to rival the ones in the museum. Each miniature created and sculpted by hand. Electrified as well.

As she took us on the tour, she told us her life story too. She -- Sylvia -- was from Germany. She met her husband, a handsome man as proved by a portrait, in London. They moved to Edinburgh 50 years ago. She'd lived in her art-filled home since 1991. What an incredible woman! She gave Caz a skirt, hemmed at the bottom with knitting. We must have been visiting with her for over an hour. What a strange, cool experience! This is the sort of thing I live for when travelling. Apparently, a lot of folks come to see her -- she's a bit of a local legend we happily stumbled on by accident. She gave us each a card with her picture and address on it. I need to find a card or something when I get back to Timmins, so I can send it to her.

We eventually got out, but didn't make it to the yarn shop in time -- it was closed. We walked around to Arthur's Seat, then attempted to find a place for beer, but everything was packed full, so we called it quits for the day. Hopefully we'll get out for a drink before I have to go!

Tomorrow's plans -- Princes Street, Edinburgh Dungeon, and perhaps another tour.

Edinburgh Journal, April 21, 2016 -- Edinburgh Castle, The Royal Mile, The Writers' Museum, Mercat Tours #1

I kept waking up every hour and a half until about 4 am, but finally slept solidly after that until about 9. After figuring out how to use the hob -- an arduous process involving many buttons -- I made my usual egg and cheese english muffin sandwich. An egg mcmuffin, with healthier ingredients, basically. The cheese I bought yesterday is yummy. I honestly felt a lot better, minus my aching hip from the airport run, and was out by 10:30ish.On the way out of the building there was a young woman with a music case of some sort, who asked me if I knew of a good local cafe -- it was the first of three times I was mistaken as a local student today. Really. I'm not that young.

I went up the Royal Mile, which is something I've wanted to do for over a decade. The buildings, most of which are 17th or 18th century, are beautiful. The stain of several centuries of pollution only adds to the atmosphere of history mixed with modern life. And the Mile really is bursting with life. I stopped at St. Giles Cathedral to get a ticket for tonight's ghost walk, but I didn't go in. I'll leave that for another day. Instead, I went straight up to Edinburgh Castle.

The cobbled streets are hard on the feet, but the view is worth it. As you walk up the hill, the last narrow part of the Mile opens up to a grand promenade, with the gates to the 800 year old castle on the far end. Beyond the gates, the buildings inside continue to rise up, perched on a clifftop overlooking the city. I got an audio tour guide, which was surprisingly loud enough for my deaf ears, and it was good -- I'd recommend it to anyone.

Before I turned it on, I suddenly realised it was the Queen's 90th birthday that day! I rounded a corner, and hundreds of people were listening to a band playing, of all things, the theme to Star Wars! After that, there was an official march of dignitaries and a 21 gun salute. Too bad she was in London -- but Edinburgh Castle is her Scottish home, so... still a cool experience.

I went back to the audio tour. I'll explain the parts that struck me. The Great Hall -- the ceiling is beautifully carved, inlaid oak beams, capped with stone carvings. It's breathtaking. On the other end of the scale was St. Margaret's Chapel -- a tiny building, one room partitioned into two with an altar. The chevron carving in the arch between the two sections is unique and a bit out of place to me, for some reason. It seems to modern, even though it's original. Apparently, the chapel is thought to be the oldest building still standing in Edinburgh.

The POW barracks were awesome -- well-preserved with beds, hammocks, fires, laundry, etc. It gave a real sense of how they lived, which was actually pretty well. I'd rather be a French POW than a Scottish traitor. There were also carved jewelry boxes and other artistic pursuits on display, made by POWs during their time at the barracks. They were extremely talented men, and it's amazing how finely done and gorgeous they were, considering how few tools they had to work with.

The Castle Whisky Shop was packed, and I would have liked to have spent more time in there. Alas, I was only (!) able to sample one -- a cream whisky, which was very good -- and buy a small bottle of their house (err... castle) whisky for Mike. It's only sold there, at the castle!

The place that struck me the most was the War Memorial. It's huge. It gave me chills when I walked in. I can't remember feeling like that on entering a place before. I don't know why. I've been to other war memorials before, but not like this. There were books laid out at every turn, including two for the Canadian Scottish division from the World Wars. I was nearly in tears when I left but, oddly enough, felt immediately better the moment I reached the bottom of the stairs.

On the way back -- after about 4 hours in the castle -- I found The Writers' Museum by chance. It covers the lives of Robert Louis Stevenson, Walter Scott, and of course, good old Robbie Burns. I got to see the Brodie cabinet, too! Thief, yes, but a damn good carpenter. Stevenson wasn't a particularly attractive man, I discovered. I don't think I'd seen a picture of him up until today, but there were numerous photos of him through his section of the museum. It was the first place I'd been that was free, thank goodness. It was well worth the visit.

I ate fish and chips at Biblo's (not Bilbo's) on the way back for a rest. The fish had a funny taste, but not bad. I have made plans to meet Caz at 12:30 tomorrow to go to the Museum of Childhood, wander the Royal Mile, and whatever else we might find!

Okay, off to the ghost walk.

***

The ghost tour was very well done! We had a good sized group of 16. Folks from Denmark, Dublin (talked to a guy named Ronin), and Singapore. The ladies from the latter were freezing, but it was quite nice out from my point of view. Two men from the group were "whipped" at the Mercat Cross Monument, and I was hanged in the old method. Meaning I died slowly, rather than having my neck quickly snapped. Apparently I was a bad victim, haha! There were more histories than ghost stories, but I'm okay with that.

The vaults were cool -- very creepy, but I didn't experience anything unfortunately. We finished the night at a tavern room inside the vaults, where we were given a dram of whisky and told a few more stories. The guide was great! Her name was Camilla and she's in her third year studying philosophy. She's originally from Manchester, so we had a good conversation beforehand, since I've been there. I'll have to give her a write-up on Mercat's Facebook page at some point!

Edinburgh Journal, April 19/20, 2016 -- Air Rouge, Dublin Airport, Surgeon's Hall Museum

(Note: This is not a creepypasta, but an actual journal entry from my trip overseas.)


To be honest, I really don't feel like writing. I feel like going home. It's probably a mix of exhaustion, hormones, and mental illness, but I'm really not happy to be here. I started out yesterday at 2:15 pm -- mom drove me to the airport. I saw K- W- -- my old associate teacher, and the only one still living -- and tried to ignore her. She's nice, but I didn't feel like explaining my job situation. So, guess who I ended up getting sat next to on the plane to Toronto? Mind you, we ended up talking about knitting and crocheting more than anything else, so that wasn't too bad. Still, my anxiety was acting up. It really didn't get any better... only worse.

After settling on fries and a coke for dinner -- everything was so bloody expensive, as usual for an airport -- I discovered a free app to play on the airport iPads. I can't remember what it was called. I won, but couldn't redeem for some reason. Of course. So, I went to buy a couple of little bottles of ice wine and some maple syrup for Caz. I'm worried about meeting her. She seems a lot more outgoing than I am, and I don't think she's going to be terribly impressed with me.

Anyway, I boarded my flight to Dublin. Holy crap Air Canada Rouge is tight! Never again! I barely had enough room for myself, and then came this 6'5"+ guy to sit next to me. I felt sorry for him. I would have felt worse had he bothered to even make eye contact with me. He was... strange. Twitchy. Organizing and reorganizing everything around him. Odd movements. Muttering to himself. And he spent a third of the flight looking like a ghost with the blanket thrown over his head. It was all rather disconcerting, but I think he may have had trouble with flying or something.

It was a night flight, but because of the time difference, we saw dawn at at 2 am, our time. I haven't slept since the night before last, as I write this. I wish I could sleep on planes. Maybe I wouldn't have basically had a public melt down in Dublin if I had been even remotely rested.

***

I got off the plane, which was a bit late, but I figured I was okay with 1.5 hours. How wrong I was. The problem started in Timmins. They booked my luggage all the way through to Edinburgh, but didn't/wouldn't give me a boarding pass for the last leg  because Aer Lingus isn't part of Star Alliance. Which is bullshit, and I tried to argue it, but got nowhere. I was told to pick up the pass in Dublin.

Got to Dublin, and a security woman told me I had to get my luggage (?!?!), go out through customs, again, pick up my ticket, check my bag again, then go through security... then I could go to my gate. I stood for nearly 20 minutes waiting for my luggage, which didn't come, obviously. Asked another security guy, and he said no -- I didn't need to get my bag. It was checked straight through. But, I nee3ded to go to Terminal 2 for Aer Lingus. I was in Terminal 1. So, I ran there to get my ticket. I get in line and ask an attendant if I could make it.

She said no.

That's when I started to panic. She sent me to customer service, who took her sweet time trying to help me, meanwhile telling me that I'd have to run, and even then it was unlikely. I'd have to schedule, and pay for, a new flight. She SLOWLY got me my pass and I RAN. Oh my god did I run. I was in tears and shaking and people around me probably thought I was nuts.

I made it at the eleventh hour. I was the last person and they were literally closing the gate. What a fucking nightmare. On no sleep. At least I met a nice lady and her daughter, from Toronto, who were also on the taxi bus to the flight. She was very friendly and got me talking and calm again. She and her daughter are spending a few days in Edinburgh, then going up to see family in Aberdeen. They're going back to Toronto the same day as I am -- if I see her, I'll have to thank her. She was obviously aware of my emotional state.

***

The last leg of the trip was happily uneventful. Took a cab to the hotel (Richmond Place Apartments), which was worth the twenty quid. The reception was friendly, and the apartment was perfect, and has a full kitchen which is great. I'm writing this part the next day only because I was too exhausted and emotional to continue yesterday. I went out after showering and resting (couldn't nap) and went to the Surgeon's Hall Museum -- I may go back.

It was incredibly interesting, if morbid. I'm sure many folks wouldn't be able to stomach it. The tools of medicine were more my speed, but the human specimens were neat. Creepy, but neat. I by-passed the diseased eyeballs. I'm blinking madly just thinking about them. I wish I could have been able/allowed to take pictures, but given that they're remains of people, I can understand why photography is strictly prohibited. One of the most fascinating sections was on the "grave robbers" Burke and Hare. They weren't really grave robbers, seeing as they murdered their victims to sell their corpses to Dr. Robert Knox. The museum had on display not only the skeleton of Burke, and his post-gallows death-mask with visible ligature marks from the rope, but also a book... bound in his skin. He was hanged after Hare turned on him in order to save his own life then, ironically enough, subjected to a public autopsy.

After the museum, I went for groceries (fitting) at Tesco and settled on dinner from Subway after being yelled at in the KFC. Weird-ass toothless girl who couldn't wait two seconds for me to make a decision. I went back to the hotel, ate, then stayed up until 10 pm (on purpose) to watch "Location, Location, Location" for the first time in years.

I then passed out promptly on the comfortable bed.

An Homage to The Yellow Wallpaper (World Poetry Day)

He entered the room

and heard a tap tap tap

Yellow and faded

there was a scratch scratch scratch

She once was trapped

and went round round round

Her prison of yellow

and went rip rip rip

Now she is gone

and he goes round round round

Hearing her voice

he goes rip rip rip

(The Yellow Wallpaper is a short story by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. If you'd like to read it, it can be found here, at Project Gutenberg: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1952/1952-h/1952-h.htm)

Lip Reading (full, unedited)

I woke up this morning with a dull ache in my left ear, and a tiny spot of blood on my pillow. By the time I got to the bathroom, the pain was gone and the blood had already crusted over. To be honest, I didn't really think much of it. I had been dealing with a sinus infection, and figured the pressure had caused my ear to pop. Wouldn't be the first time.

I continued on with my morning routine -- showered, brushed my teeth, got dressed. You know -- what most people do before heading out to work. My next stop was the kitchen, to turn on the coffee maker and grab something to eat. I live with a roommate, Yvonne, and I felt her enter the room behind me as I was spreading cream cheese on a bagel. I say "felt" because I'm deaf. Not hearing impaired, or hard of hearing... stone deaf. Have been since birth. So, I felt the vibrations of her footsteps on the floor and turned to greet her with a smile. She smiled back, and I went back to preparing my breakfast.

You need to brush your hair.

I froze.

"What?" I asked in my halting voice, turning to face her again. I wasn't used to speaking out loud. "What did you say?"

Did you hear me? Did you actually hear me? her lips read. She looked as startled as I was.

"Not that. But what you said before that."

WOW! She smiled broadly, but I didn't hear her voice again. We both broke into a flurry of ASL for a moment, but then she tried speaking again. I couldn't hear her. Maybe I hadn't heard her before, I began to think. I mean, I'm deaf. How would I even know what sound... sounded like? It was bizarre. We decided it was time to go to work. She turned around and walked toward her bedroom. That's when I heard a second sentence:

You're going to make us both late because of this.

I opened my month to respond, but closed it again, frowning. Why was Yvonne being so rude?

Later that morning, we had both arrived at our shift at the coffee shop where we worked. I had heard a few things from people on the street, but none of it seemed to be directed at me. Which is good thing, because everyone seemed to be in a foul mood. If this was how folks spoke to each other, I didn't think I was missing much.

Eric, another employee, was setting up the till and Yvonne and I put on our aprons.

Could you get some more sugar packs from the back? Eric asked Yvonne.

Why don't you make her lazy ass do it?

That's what I heard her reply. But it's not what she said. It's not what I read on her lips. What Yvonne said out loud was, I think we need more stir sticks, too.

I stood there, gape-mouthed, wondering what the hell was happening. Yvonne looked at me, her head tilted to one side, her eyebrows furrowed in the middle.

What's wrong with you, you dumb bitch?

This time her lips didn't move. It finally dawned on me. Her thoughts. I was hearing her thoughts. How on earth could someone be that good an actress? I had lived with the girl for years -- she was my best friend. She learned ASL for me. Why? Just to get cheaper rent? Eric touched me on the shoulder.

Are you alright? I saw him say.

"I'm fine. I'm just not feeling well."

Bullshit. She's fucking crazy. I'm so sick of her crap. Maybe I should throw this coffee at her face. That way can be deaf and blind.

A wicked internal laugh welled up as Yvonne picked up a pot of steaming coffee from its perch.

It was at this point that I grabbed a knife from the sandwich station, lunging at her and screaming obscenities. All I remember after that was a sudden, searing pain in my head, darkness.

At about 4 o'clock that afternoon, I woke up in a hospital bed with Yvonne by my side. My head still hurt, but my ear hurt even more.

Can you hear me? she asked, speaking out loud.

"No. What--?" I had the impression I had done something terribly wrong. Then I remembered. "Why do you hate me? Why were you thinking all those horrible things?"

What are you talking about? Is that what you heard? she switched to ASL. You weren't hearing anything real. You were... you had... She was desperately trying to find the words when the doctor walked in. He carried a small jar in his hand.

Feeling better? he asked. Do you lip read? Yes. Okay. So, no charges will be laid. Thankfully we got this out as soon as we did. He held up the jar. It had burrowed quite far into your ear. I can't even imagine what kind of damage it could have done. We, uh... we've sent off a portion of it to be examined. We're, uh, not sure what it is. But it's out, and that's the main thing. You said you were hearing voices?

"Thoughts," I replied. "I thought I was hearing thoughts. All the thoughts from everyone were bad though, so... I guess they weren't real." I wasn't sure I believed myself as I said this. "Can I see it?"

He handed it over to me and I peered inside. Held in the viscous liquid was a worm. A maggot. About half an inch long and covered in greyish scales. There was a stripe of red around one end that seemed to ooze a brownish goop. A toxin, perhaps? I gagged at the thought of that thing being in my ear. I handed it back to the doctor, and he left, with an index finger in the air.

Phone, Yvonne signed. I nodded in understanding.

I'm sorry. I so, so sorry. I can't believe I nearly--

It's okay. You were sick. She shook her head, and placed a hand on my arm.

So that's the end of it. That brings us up to the present. I just have to get the doctor's permission to-- oh, he's just come in now. He doesn't look happy. I read the single word on his lips:

Eggs.

Two-Way Mirror (full, unedited)

I worked as an intern in the psychiatric wing of a hospital when I was younger. I had spent years studying to be a doctor, but I was still deciding on which area would be my expertise. Having known many people -- both family and friends -- with mental health struggles, I thought I'd give it a shot when this psychiatry internship came up. At very least, it would be one more experience to add to my growing resume.

On the first day, I was in the outpatient area -- it was mostly a collection of private rooms for therapy sessions, fronted by a reception desk. As I wasn't legally able to sit in on private sessions yet, my supervisor had me sitting in a room adjacent to reception, going over basic procedures expected for dealing with long-term outpatient clients. Pretty run-of-the-mill stuff, really, but it never hurts to refresh your memory on such things -- especially as a physician.

The room itself struck me as perfectly ordinary. Perhaps ten by fifteen feet, the door to the reception office to my left, and another door on the facing wall at the opposite end. I sat at a large, oblong conference table, with the receptionists clearly visible through the open door beside me. The other door was shut. Along the same wall as the closed door was a square, dark window. Must be a two-way, I thought. There must be an observation room on the other side, though I couldn't see it since the lights were off. I didn't think they used those anymore, except in cop dramas.

Anyway, I got down to work, reading through the manuals and policies and various other forms my supervisor kept piling on over the next two hours or so. He was one of those people who would bound in, half-dazed, saying "Oh yeah -- I almost forgot --" and list off another encyclopedia's worth of information you needed -- absolutely needed -- to know immediately. I was beginning to suspect he was actually an escaped patient from another area of the psychiatric wing. Finally, though, I hadn't seen him for a good half an hour or so.

I could hear the soft chatter of the staff in the office as I scanned the text in front of me. It soothed me to a point that I nearly jumped out of my chair when I saw a flash of -- something -- from the direction of the window. I stared at it for a moment, not sure if my mind was playing tricks on me. Coffee. I probably need coffee. I yawned widely, and made myself another cup from the Keurig on the trolley behind me.

Back to work, and not five minutes later I saw something out of the corner of my eye again. This time it looked less like a flash, and more of a streak. Like someone with a light-coloured shirt walking past the window in the other room. I hesitated for a moment, then stood up.

"Hey, is anyone using the observation room?" The question was directed into the reception office. One of the ladies answered.

"No, it hasn't been used in years."

I was going to ask if there was another entrance into the room, but she had already picked up the phone to answer another call. It was pretty busy there, I'll admit. Lots of clients and patients to keep anyone on their toes. Instead of bothering another receptionist, I did the next simplest thing: I walked across the room to the other door, opened it, and switched on the light. Apart from a play mat, and a few toys in one corner, the observation room was deserted. There was no other door. I stepped in two paces and glanced at the window -- a mirror on this side. Nothing seemed out of place, and there was nothing which could have made what I saw. What I thought I saw.

I turned off the light, closed the door, and went back to my reading, feeling a little... weirded out.

Tap, tap, tap.

This was stupid. Now I was hearing things. I got up again and closed the door to the conference room, hoping to drown out any noise coming from the chaos of the reception office.

Tap, tap, tap.

It was definitely coming from the two-way mirror. At this point, I really didn't want to turn around to face it. Part of me, more than I'd like to admit, believed I was going to see something... something out of a horror movie. I was in the middle of a busy hospital, in the middle of the day, in a bright room... and I was scared. I can't even tell you why I was scared -- it was like the feeling was injected into me, against my will. I turned.

Nothing. Everything was normal, including the dark window on the other wall.

Tap, tap, tap.

I went over to the window and put my ear against it. You're an idiot if you believe that last sentence. I didn't move an inch, and neither would any sane person with an ounce of self-preservation. I stared at the window from across the room, the conference table providing a much-appreciated barrier between me, and whatever was making that sound. Without realizing what I was doing, I reached out to the table and tapped it three times. What the hell was I doing?! My breath caught in my throat as I waited, but there was no response. I was concentrating so hard on listening, that it startled me to realize that faint words had materialized on the window. I could only read one word.

help

I ran over to door of the observation room, flinging it open and slamming on the lights. This time I found myself in the middle of the room, on the play mat, looking all around. No one. Nothing. Not even the mirror had anything on it -- no dust, no fingerprints. Nothing at all. My heart was pounding like mad. It didn't make any sense! What could possibly--? No. That was it. I was going to find somewhere else to sit and work. That was the answer, and the only one I needed. Any other answers... well, I no intention of sticking around to investigate.

I turned off the light, and shut the door for a second time. I gathered my materials quickly, carefully keeping my back to the window, despite another round of tapping. I had to ignore it.

BANG, BANG, BANG!

I spun around, almost knocking myself off-balance. The once faint words had become distinct.

let me help you

Three feet away from me, these words formed, thicker and thicker, as though some viscous substance was trying to give them life. I was paralysed. A small, spindly, ash-grey hand pressed itself against the window from the other room.

I don't know if you've ever heard a grown man scream, but it's not a pleasant experience for anyone. The receptionists next door rushed in, obviously alarmed, and I crashed into them on my way out. One of them fell, and I think another grabbed his nose in pain. I hadn't even grabbed my stuff -- in fact, I didn't stop until I was in at my car, in the parking lot, five minutes later.

Needless to say, I didn't go back. Embarrassed hardly describes how I felt. I know it's incredibly unprofessional, but I resigned from the internship immediately, with a thinly-worded email to the university, hospital, and my supervisor. Oddly enough, it didn't cause any trouble. I suppose that was incredibly lucky.

I did continue on to other internships, and eventually a residence at the same hospital. But I never stepped foot into the the psychiatric wing again, nor did I continue to take any interest in psychiatry at all. Today, I'm a obstetrician with my own private practice, far away from the hospital with the square, two-way mirror.

Children's Stories (Part 1, unedited)

This is going to sound crazy. I think it's crazy, and I know you won't believe me.

I need to stop right there.

How many creepypastas start out with those sentences, or something similar? I feel like a kid sitting down to write a short story for school, who's read one too many of them online, or been listening to them on YouTube at three o'clock in the morning.

God knows I've done the same. I love folklore, and legends, and myths. Even if they aren't real, they can tell you a lot about a culture, and about humanity in general. But that's the thing -- I never thought they were real. Sure, they might have a grain of truth somewhere in them, but...

Yeah. Superstition and all that. A lack of understanding of science, and the real.

I'm a history major, and about to graduate. And like all history majors, I have very little I can do with my degree on its own. I grew up in a family of accountants and bankers for the most part, but the thought of doing anything like that gags me, to be perfectly honest. My Grandmother Ellie, on my mother's side, was a teacher. She was born in 1944, and after she left secondary school at the age of 17, she studied to become a primary teacher. At the time, she only had to complete a one year certification program, so she was out and teaching at 18 years old.

This was the woman I had grown up admiring, and part of me always knew I'd try to follow in her footsteps. Of course, it would take me a lot longer, but I knew it would be worth it. Grandma Ellie is the kindest, most patient soul I've ever met. She would sit with me for hours when I was a kid, reading to me, playing games, making crafts. She always had a smile on her face, and I suspected the same was true when she was with her students all those years ago.

So. As I said, I'm about the graduate. Next semester, in fact. I had planned on applying to the Faculty of Education, but before I did I wanted to talk to Grandma Ellie about it. I wasn't sure what advice she could give me, if any. I mean, everything is so much different nowadays. I think I just wanted some moral support, since I couldn't really talk to anyone else in my family about it. They all think I'm nuts as it is.

I went to her for support then.

The story she told me, however, is making me question becoming a teacher at all.

Apparently, this is how it happened:

Grandma Ellie -- or, just Miss Ellie Sanderson at that point -- took a job in a small mining town. I won't name any names here. That's not fair to the current residents. But I can tell you that the town was very old, even then. The original gold mines weren't pit mines, or even shaft mines -- they were blast-a-tunnel-into-the-side-of-a-hill old. The kind you see in black and white, silent gold-rush films from way back. By the time she arrived to teach second grade, most of old mine entrances had been boarded up, and the town only had a couple of larger, more modern mining companies producing ore to be processed.

The school she was working at was built at the end of the Great War, in 1918, and had been used as a makeshift hospital in the summer before it officially opened for victims of the Spanish Flu outbreak. It's main and top floor had wide, tall hallways stretching from one end to the other, and my grandmother remembered enjoying the echoed clicking of her heels on the polished wooden slats throughout the hallways and the classrooms. Large windows let it plenty of light, and radiators lined the walls to keep the school warm in the coldest of temperatures. Overall, it was a pleasant building, brightly decorated in the latest 1960s schoolroom fashions, and she loved teaching her little class of students, eager and energetic. The basement was another matter.

She told me she never ventured down there much. It was dark and cold, with a concrete floor. The ceiling hung low, dropping wires and pipes and other mechanical things which distressed her. That was the word she used -- distressed. It confused her, being distressed by basement. It was an "unreasonable" reaction. Miss Sanderson chalked it up to her imagination, and the ramblings of her students.

Though she didn't go down to the dungeon, as they called it, her students went down all the time. Modern toilets had been put down there about a decade earlier, giving them little choice. The children, being children in a creepy setting, came up with all sorts of stories regarding the dungeon, most of them revolving around the school's time as a hospital. The basement had been a temporary morgue. Nearly fifty people had died in the building. No, over a hundred! Mostly children! The ghosts of these children crept around the dark dungeon, waiting for a living child to play with. Or to scare to death. They wanted more playmates, or (my grandmother shivered at the next thought) a new body to possess, to live a life they were so cruelly denied.

My Grandma Ellie knew it was foolish, but she was certainly happy for the toilet in the staff room on the second floor. As long as she stayed in the airy, bright upper floors of her school, she had nothing to fear. What she didn't recognize was the very real danger coming from down the road.

Not more than a five minute walk from the school was one of the boarded up mine entrances, quite possibly one of the oldest ones in town. Though most of the old tunnels had been boarded up in the early 1900s, this one, she was told, had been closed off much earlier. Much, much earlier. A colleague, whom she could remember only as a fifth grade teacher, said he had done a little research on it when teaching his students how to use microfilm. They ran across a newspaper article from just before the Second World War discussing reopening that particular mine. The article didn't go into much detail, however it did say that there was still a large vein to be mined out. Later on, another article reported a unanimous town council decision to leave it closed. Miss Sanderson's colleague found it perplexing. She didn't find it all that odd. She just assumed it had something to do with finances, or safety codes, or something like that. Maybe it wasn't safe to mine. She remembered that though the fifth grade teacher had nodded his head, he didn't seem satisfied with the possible explanation.

That was the last she had thought about the mine until about a month before the end of the school year. It was May when the strange occurrences began, and Miss Sanderson took notice. One of her students, Sarah-Anne, stood in the cloakroom, doing the "potty dance" when she was supposed to be outside for recess. When she was told she had permission to go to the toilet, the little girl shook her head furiously and refused to explain why. Sarah-Anne wouldn't say anything at all. My grandmother finally rushed her to the staff room, and let her use the facilities there.

Over the course of the next few days, several other students nearly had accidents, and not just those in my Grandma Ellie's class. Neither her, nor any of her colleagues could drag any sort of explanation out of their students until Friday morning. One of the sixth graders had been caught escorting his younger sister behind a utility shed on the edge of the soccer field, a roll of toilet paper in hand. He confessed she was too frightened to go to the dungeon -- they all were, he whispered -- but she really needed to pee. Most of the kids had been rushing home at lunch time or holding it until the end of the day.

When asked why, he went silent for a moment. My grandmother said he looked like he was considering something very carefully. It made her wonder how much of his answer was the truth. When the boy spoke, he said there were dead children in the dungeon, but they weren't ghosts and they weren't from the hospital. He said he wasn't even sure they were actually children. Another teacher scoffed loudly, admonishing the boy, telling him he shouldn't be scaring the younger students and ordering him to detention hall to write lines.

Miss Sanderson caught the child's arm quickly, before he could leave, asking one more question: Where did he think the dead children came from? It was a ridiculous question, and she wasn't sure why she asked it. But her students were terrified, and she wanted answers. My Grandma Ellie said she'll never forget the boy's sheet white face as he answered her: From the mine.

Well, in her mind that settled it. The story of the dungeon had changed! Her colleague, and his research studies with his class on the neighborhood mine, had altered the prevailing myth of the dungeon. She had laughed at herself, feeling stupid. Children's stories, and nothing more.

That evening, after working on her end of year reports, Miss Ellie Sanderson found herself walking home a little later than usual, past the boarded up old mine tunnel. This time she glanced over at it incredulously, and stopped in her tracks. There were a few boards missing, creating a hole just large enough for a child to enter. Or exit.

She laughed out loud this time, and convinced herself that with all the rumours spreading around the school, it was most likely some of the older kids had taken to exploring. My Grandma Ellie made a point to speak to the principal about it on Monday. An abandoned mine was dangerous, dead children or not. She thought nothing more of it that weekend.

(to be continued)