My research in the archives hit a bit of a road block. When I returned Tuesday night to continue my work I ran into a new lock. This one out was way of my league. Retinal scanners and fingerprint ID? Seriously? This is a small town newspaper…so why all the Mission Impossible security?
However, that question is just one of many on my list.
Yesterday night, while drowning my sorrows in a large double chocolate milkshake, I ran into Mr. Browne. On a good day he’s ornery and mean, and apparently, it was not a good day.
He slid into the booth in front of me and mumbled his order at Bernie who mumbled something back and left. I avoided eye contact with him since all prior attempts to talk with him have resulted in me being yelled at for not appreciating the peace and quiet I enjoy.
My attention back on my ever growing list of things to look into, a shadow crossed over my table. I assumed it was Bernie and slid my milkshake to the side to make room for my burger.
“You’re that student reporter…the one who writes about all the crazy stuff in the Friday column of yours?”
I froze. Making eye contact with this man over the years had always ended badly. I nodded my head, keeping my attention on the table. “Yes, the Fiction Friday post. I also blog –”
“I have no idea what the hell that means. But you write? I want you to write something for me.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. What the hell could this man want me to put into words? “Well, I tend to stick with stories that are strange –”
“and unusual, I know. I’m not an idiot. Look, you want to hear my story or not?”
Not wanting to lose a possible informant I agreed. He proceeded to tell me, in a non-mumbling way, that during the last three years he’d called the police six times to report strange lights outside of his house. Each time they came they found nothing. When they wrote up the report they always had a reason: reflections off of puddles, a neighbors flickering porch light, kids playing a joke, a flock of owls, and so forth.
Problem was, it had never rained in the nights he’d called so there were no puddles. Kids were terrified of him. Owls don’t flock, he’d looked it up. And so on. He shot down every excuse they’d used but they still refused to listen to him.
Mr. Browne told me more. How a strange humming accompanied the noise and he lost time, usually an hour or two. He pulled out a thick file and I caught the U.F.O. stamp on the corner. My interest surged in what he had to say.
I heard the hint of fear in his voice and that’s why I’m writing this – what are the lights from that appear over the house of Mr. Browne?
Aliens? Was it possible? I always thought Logansville was a paranormal hotspot, but why not U.F.O.’s as well?
More later, this student reporter has a lot to research.