College Credit

Manhattan - New York University Campus

One of the largest private universities in the United States, NYU was founded in 1831. Boasting an enrollment of more than 40,000 students across 18 schools and colleges. The University offers more than 25 different degrees in various education paths including, but not limited to the humanities, the sciences, and the social sciences; the law; medicine; business; education; the fine arts, studio art, and the performing and cinematic arts; music; social work and public administration.

The Washington Square campus in the heart of Greenwich Village is considered the center and heart of the university. The University itself exists as a part of the city, not separated from Manhattan by gates or walls, but rather spreading and mingling into the city around it.

The most prominent and well known feature of the campus are Washington's Arch, a large marble arch which was originally constructed from wood and plaster to commemorate the centennial of George Washington's inauguration as president of the United States, and a large fountain, which are in the Washington Square Park.


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Amy Jackson Locke Martin

One thing Amy likes about the NYU campus being in the middle of the city is that it's always busy. Morning, afternoon, evening or late at night, there are people wandering around, students engaged in those sorts of socialization activities, professors catching up on work or trying to get off campus and get home. She doesn't look out of place, however. She could easily pass for a grad student or a professor, dressed in a pair of jeans and an overlarge cardigan with a backpack over her shoulder. Of course, she's also muttering to herself under her breath, but then again, with finals finishing up, that's not so odd either.
"Well, it might have helped if you'd remembered that they lock the offices on the top floor after five." It's hard to resist the urge to look at the 'person' to whom she's speaking, but she manages. No one else will see the portly, balding, red-faced, panting professor who's trying to keep pace with her. The one who was kind enough to have a heart attack in his office and scare the twenty year old TA.
He's panting for crying out loud!
Amy stops shortly, cuts a glance to him and then looks straight ahead again. "You're dead, Orwell, stop panting."

With the constant traffic that the campus sees it truly is a wonder that there have yet to be any accidents involving one of the nuttiest professors on campus. Today. Apparently being in New York has given most people the sensibility to at least remotely pay attention to the paths before them. It would be considered kind of all those on campus, students and faculty alike, would adapt such practices. Sadly this is a scenario that likely will never happen.

A portfolio bag hangs across the body of one Professor Locke Martin as he makes his way across campus to some unknown destination. The man barely realizes that he is walking as he is currently engrossed in the essay paper of one of his students. He continues to look down at the folder containing the assignment, nearly running himself into the architecture.

Aside from the shuffling of his feet there are few movements other than the occasional flipping of a page or adjusting of his glasses. If someone is speaking to herself, or to no one, he doesn't notice. In fact, Locke continues to head in her direction as he shakes his head. "You were so close! Don't lose track now!"


Somehow the ghost's face gets redder, something that Amy either contributes to an overactive imagination or the discovery of something new in how ghosts materialize and present themselves. At least it stops the panting and the unnecessary running commentary with every step that they take.
Nodding her head, and satisfied that she might have a minute to compose her thoughts and figure out how to get into Professor Orwell's office to prove to rescue his prize spear heads and give them to his son. Yes, helping ghosts sometimes comes down to breaking and entering.
~Hey watch out for the loony!~ The moment Orwell says the words, he reaches for Amy, whether to grab her or push her out of the way, she doesn't know. It doesn't matter because he only succeeds in passing his large gut and one arm through her arm and ribcage, feeling her with a tingling cold.
Amy gasps and jerks away, in the absolute wrong direction, sending her stumbling forward to the very person Orwell was trying to get her to avoid.


There are many ways to meet new people in a city so large yet he has only successfully done so in this current fashion. The shuffling of someone in his path is heard but only at the last possible second. Locke does, in fact, commit to his course and runs full tilt into his 'target'. The only difference is that with the minor notification ahead of time he is able to drop his paper and hold out his arms.

What does this do? Possibly absolutely nothing, possibly make things worse. The goal is to at least stabilize his victim instead of sending her straight to the ground. His glasses slide down his nose through the commotion yet that doesn't seem to be what he focuses on.

"Hey now." Far from the proper words to say but he is far from the most sociable person alive. "Whoa, easy. Hey, are you okay?"


Amy squeezes her eyes shut. It's a silly, ridiculous thing that she does, and she's been made fun of for it by her family and best friend for years. As though closing her eyes will stop the fall, or if she doesn't see the ground coming, it will hurt less?
After a quick drawn breath, a bit of wobbling, and a grasp at something solid, there is no contact with the ground. Amy peels open one eye and then the other. She peers back at the man she almost ran into, and then gives a, "Oh god, I'm so sorry!"
Now comes the mortification and humiliation and she really wants to yell at Orwell. Instead, she hurriedly releases the man's arm, a string of apologies falling from her lips. "I'm so so so sorry. I don't know what happened. There may have been a twig in the path or -"
~He doesn't care. He's a nutjob. What about my spear heads?~
Amy bites the inside of her cheek to avoid glaring at Orwell. Sometimes she really hates dead people.

Oh now he's done it. There's an extremely nervous young woman in front of him, rambling on because of something that is very clearly his fault. His actions are typical for him. The first step is to make sure that she really is steady on her own two feet. Having her fall now simply will not do.

The second step is to stare at her nervously. The pause is far longer than it should be, as is the stare. It isn't that the professor is a creeper; he merely has no idea what he's supposed to do at this point. "Are you okay, Miss? That could have been ugly."

A hand grasps at the back of his neck at the 'prolonged' exposure to someone unknown. Then stage three: the realization that he should actually admit that it is his fault. "No harm done, right? Besides, I'm pretty sure it was probably my fault." There is a fake confidence to his tone, almost sounding like arrogance.

Glasses still low he stoops to retrieve his paper. "Sorry about that, by the way."


"Yes, yes, I'm okay." Amy pats down her clothes and rubs her palms on her pants simply to have something to do with her hands. She takes a good look now at the man in front of her, and gives a sheepish smile. "No really, that was all on me. I -" Had an annoying ghost startle me " - tripped."
Yes, it possibly could not get any more lame than that.
She almost kneels to help him retrieve the paper, then thinks better of it. Instead her eyes shoot daggers at Orwell. "But no harm. We're both unscathed, aren't we?"


"Very well then." If she's going to take the blame he isn't about to try and stop her. It's a tad silly in his opinion but to each their own. Once the pages are neatly back inside the folder he stands, still forgetting to adjust his glasses. "Everyone has their moments." This I know.

Locke actually offers his victim a smile. "I'd like to consider this no harm done. You should see some of the other professors that I've run into." For some reason he chuckles. "Some of they really fly when there is some force behind it."

And now you sound like you make a game out of catapulting humans. "Not that I really try for that. But, you know, sometimes it's kind of funny. Especially when they get angry."


Okay, he is an odd one, Amy thinks. She's trying hard not to focus on Orwell's murmurings about the man in front of her being the boil on the armpit of NYU and the laughing stock of the campus. She's pretty sure that with his post death disposition that Orwell was no ray of sunshine or very popular in life. Sadly, perky bubbly ghosts don't tend to linger.
"Slapstick humor, yes, I suppose that could be funny."
~Humoring the crazies only makes them like you.~
It takes everything Amy has to not yell at Orwell. She could send him away, temporarily, but that would mean actually talking to him, or talking to the air around her, and directing her energy. She's not for doing that right now.
"Well, so long as we're both all right, your paper didn't suffer any damage…" Amy's ready to continue on her way, when she gets the glimmer of an idea. "I'm actually, maybe you could help me? I'm a bit turned around. I was here earlier visiting the anthropology department. I'm working on this article for … well, it's probably boring to anyone not in anthro, but I left my pen in the office. It's locked up now, and I was just wondering if you could point me to a janitor, maybe?"
That tops her lame excuses, she's sure, but she is working on a plan. Anything to get rid of Orwell.


You did not just say it's funny to hurt people, or to make them mad. You did not.

Alas he did and he's already made that impression. Knowing that it cannot be undone he simply moves past it. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. I'm beginning to think my students take my classes for what they feel will be easy grades instead of having actual interest. I had high hopes for this paper but she basically just likened witchcraft and resurrections to Harry Potter." At this Locke finally pushes his glasses back into place.

Upon hearing the sad tale of a pen left behind he feels as if he has a new mission in life. "Oh, I'm sure that I can get you in." He would love to take the credit for it, to be a hero, but suddenly remembers that the full truth is often best. "Well, you know, in the fact that I can likely locate one of the janitors no problem and him help you in so that you can get what it is that you need. Err, him or her. Not to stereotype. I suppose that janitorial staff members can be whichever sex that they choose. And gender to, for that matter."

Oh shut up already. So he does.


Orwell is beginning to show signs of impatience, even though he's not getting any older or deader, when the odd professor says that he can help her out.
Amy smiles graciously and nods her head, "Thank you. Thank you so much. Mr? Professor? Dr?" Yes, it's fishing for a name, but she can't go around thinking of him as 'the odd man' or calling him 'Hey you,' can she? Besides, she's learned that it's helpful to have as many connections as possible in her line of 'work.'


He nods and beings to walk away, expecting her to follow. It isn't until he takes several steps that he realizes that she is indeed fishing for more information. "Oh. OH." The hand returns to rub at the back of his neck. Locke scolds himself mentally as he shakes his head. "Professor." He's about to walk away when he realizes that he should actually add a name to that. "Locke. Martin. Professor, though, but not important. I mean technically Professor Locke Martin. Just call me Locke. Or Martin. Or late. I'm late a lot."

Rambling again. Another head shake is given before he heads in the correct direction. "Yeah, something like that." The last part is almost mumbled. "Must be an important pen." For her to let him lead her to it, that is.


"It is," Amy enthuses with a nod to her head. "It was a gift, and it's valuable."
"Sentimental value, I mean. It's not like valuable. No one is going to want to buy it or keep it as a collectible or …" Amy snaps her jaw closed to stop talking. Sometimes, she over embellishes a little too much.
Back tracking, Amy offers her name, falling into step beside him, "I'm Amy. Most people just call me Amy."

"Well then, we can't let someone keep it from you. It's just right up here." Locke points at the building that they are close to but then realizes that it is a stupid idea. "Well, you know that already, I suppose. I mean, you were already there before. Yeah, yeah you already know. You know, I think that I'm going to just stop talking now."

Not long after, however, he opens the door to the building. "I think, well, yeah. It's probably best that I go get the janitor. One is likely not that far away. And, you know, I won't be rambling. Yeah, I'm rambling. I'll, I'll just be right back."

Locke makes a motion with his hands as if signaling for Amy to stay put. He goes to walk off, then pauses suddenly and offers a nervous smile. "Oh, and it's nice to meet you, Amy." He then wanders off quickly to find the janitor.


~This is your brilliant plan?~ Orwell asks. ~Getting the janitor? ~
Amy frowns at the obnoxious dead professor. "No, this is not my brilliant plan. The plan has stages. This is stage one."
~ What's stage two? ~
"You'll know as soon as I do," Amy mutters. She leans casually against the wall, trying not to look too obviously out of place. It's not a hard part to play, except that she's trying to figure out how to break into the locked office of a dead professor.


It takes a few minutes longer than originally anticipated, but eventually Locke returns. He's alone, and one hand is in a trouser pocket. He continues to appear nervous, almost apologetic. Despite there being no one else around, he remains silent until he approaches Amy.

"So ah, I guess someone did some major damage to one of the restrooms around here. It could quite possibly be the most disturbing thing I've ever seen. Or smelled. Or won't forget." He turns up his nose but at least as the decency to stop there.

"Due to that, the janitor's a bit tied up." He pauses before removing his hand from his pocket. In his hands is none other than a key ring. "But, he thinks I'm too weird to do anything but retrieve a pen from a room. So I've got these on loan for a while."


"Oh!" Amy's dark eyes go wide at the sight of the keys. "Perfect! Wonderful! I could just kiss you!" It's a figure of speech, but the necromancer is too focused on the keys to think of how her words might be misconstrued or taken the wrong way to the socially … challenged professor.
"Do you know which one is which or are we going to play random keys?" The woman asks with a pleasant smile.
One hurdle leapt, now to shift gears to Orwell's office. Of course, there's always the possibility that Locke doesn't know that Orwell's office is Orwell's office.


"Yeah, uh, ahem." Locke shifts nervously causing the keys to jingle. "No you couldn't. Or wouldn't. Or, yeah, you know what? Let's not talk about this."

The keys are offered over to Amy. "They're labeled with room numbers on them. Shouldn't be too hard to figure out which one you're looking for." He's not overly sold on the idea of the pen but quite frankly he doesn't care. In the end he'd help her if she told the truth.

"I can stay here, or go with you. Whichever you prefer. I mean, clearly you don't need some strange man hovering over your shoulder while you get what you came after, right?"


~What a trusting moron,~ Orwell snorts. It's a measure of willpower that Amy doesn't shoot the ghost a dirty look and tell him to just shut-up.
Her dark eyes dart from the professor to the keys and back again, then she's grabbing them up - hopefully not too quickly or eagerly - before he changes his mind. "Yes, yes…and it'll be boring … you know, crawling around looking for a pen …"
Shut up, Amy.
"I'll just run along and be back quick as a flash."


He's an untrusting idiot, but an idiot who just doesn't really care. Locke takes a brief moment to play keep-away from Amy but then the keys are promptly handed over. "I'm sure it won't be that boring. I mean, you know exactly where you left it, so it should be rather quick. You know, before my janitor friend has to touch the room."

He leans against a wall and folds his arms before him. "I'll just wait here." There's a part of him that knows he's being a dick, but it's buried so deep that he doesn't even realize it. There's no smirk; instead he just stares rather blankly.


Amy is far too enthusiastically looking forward to being rid of Orwell that the attitude goes unnoticed. The man has already struck her as odd - I'm one to talk, at least he isn't communing with dead people. Annoying dead people - and while she is grateful for his assistance, she isn't looking to make a new best friend.
"Thank you, Professor Martin." Amy does remember her manners, and with a quick duck of her head and a friendly, gracious smile, she's off.
~You're going the wrong way!~ Orwell practically shouts it at her, and she draws to a sudden halt. No answer is given to the ghost, but he takes her silence as indication to give her directions. Turning, she heads toward a different direction and the stairwell.
"So, what's his story?" Amy asks Orwell in a low voice as she ascends the staircase. She hopes that she's quiet enough that Locke won't hear her, or will assume she's simply talking to herself.
~Loony. Teaches ghost stories and superstitions. Actually believes in that make believe stuff.~ Orwell sounds positively annoyed and disgusted.
Amy stops, halfway up the stairs and just gapes at the ghost. Her jaw works soundlessly for a moment, and then she laughs. She truly can't help herself. "You're dead, Orwell. D - E - A - D. You. Are. A. Ghost. You do see the irony?" The words come between giggles and chortles, and she continues up the stairs, wiping away her tears of laughter.


He doesn't hear her whisper or mumble anything. The only thing that he does hear, however, is the laughter that comes from the stairway. If that isn't just the oddest thing ever. Yet he fully suspects it is due to her believing that she pulled a fast one on him. Perhaps she did, or perhaps he can figure out what's going on.

After the laughter Locke decides that perhaps he should see exactly what is so funny. So he attempts to follow after her, slowly and silently. He's not a spy by any means but she's certainly keeping him alerted as to which direction she's headed.


Reaching the landing, Amy pauses at the top of the stairs. She's still reining in her laughter, and looks to Orwell. "Which way? Before you go screaming in my ear again?"
Orwell, who seems to be both irate and embarrassed by her pointing out his hypocrisy, gives brief directions and Amy heads in that direction.
It's silly really, but she's not looking around to see if Professor Martin is following her. Mostly because Amy doesn't care all that much. She can just make up a new story, or if she's turned over to security … well, she does have contacts with the NYPD. Breaking and entering, and tresspassing are just a few more in a long line of offenses that Amy has never gotten officially charged with.
She unlocks the office door and flips on the light via the switch inside the door. Her eyes scan the office, the boxes that have been stacked on the desk and chairs and are in mid-packing. Orwell is wandering, muttering about his body not even being cold and some colleague or another already wanting his office.
"Where are the artifacts, Orwell? I don't see anything on the bookcases?" Still, she pulls her backpack from her shoulder and opens it up, propping it on the desk. "Locked in the desk? In your closet there?"


Well, if she's a thief, she's honestly not a very good one. No, I don't think she is.

Locke is able to follow Amy easily enough, mostly due to the fact that neither one really knows anything about the other. Eventually he finds the room that she's in and leans against the wall in the hallway. What he hears is her speaking to herself, yet claiming to be speaking to someone who is dead.

Huh. And people think I'm loony.


Orwell directs her to the closet, which of course does not have a key on the janitor's ring. Rolling her eyes, Amy mutters, "You have got to be kidding me."
She rustles around in her backpack and finds a nail file and a screwdriver. A look is given to the door, which has outside hinges, but the screwdriver won't quite look. Besides, it's loud and messy. A broken lock … well, that might not be noticed for days.
"Orwell, you're on lookout duty. Don't argue. If you want your wife to have these pieces, then you're going to do a little bit of the work."
Without waiting to see if the ghost is listening, Amy kneels by the door and tests the knob.
She's barely touched the knob, when Orwell practically appears on top of her, so close that her entire body is chilled and all the hairs stand up on end. ~He's out there!~
"Jesus, Orwell!" Amy yelps before she can process his words. The file and screwdriver hit the ground in a loud clatter and Amy scrambles to grab them. "Who is out there?" A low, desperate whisper. Not like she hasn't made enough noise to wake the dead.
~The Loony.~
Amy is quiet, considering this bit of information. Is he calling security? Waiting to see what she's really up to? He hasn't come in or made himself known.
After a moment of indecision, she opts to keep working on the closet door lock - and make up a good cover story.

Yes, she's certainly talking to herself. When left alone there are worst things to do. She must never get bored or lonely. Though, really, aren't there better people to pretend to talk to? That guy was just obnoxious. I think.

He throws around several options in his head before Locke finally decides to peek his head into the room. What he sees doesn't exactly surprise him. Where some might be able to make jokes, he just remains speechless for a moment.

"You know, you have keys to all the rooms around here." It may seem obvious but still he has to point it out. "I'm sure you can find a better tool. It might be quicker, too."


The unexpected appearance of the professor brings another yelp, though not as loud as the one Orwell caused, and the nail file goes clattering again. Even so, Amy's mind is already scrambling for an explanation when she realizes the professor isn't asking for one.
Not one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, Amy jiggles the key ring as she rises slowly to her feet. Yes, she really does always try to break locks. "There's no key to the closet. It was … Dr Orwell's - " Amy can't help but toss a glare off to the side as Orwell speaks over her about thieves, and protecting his private policy and how the janitors can't be trusted - "He was a paranoid, elitist who changed the locks."


"That you knew personally? Or is he telling you that right now?" He's certainly teasing her now, having no idea what is actually going on. "I can't really say that people liked him, but you know, I can't really say that they didn't. I honestly didn't pay attention to him. Then again, I don't really pay attention to anyone. It's sort of, well, you know what? I'm going to stop now."

Being the gentleman, or at least trying to remember how to be one, Locke bends down to pick up the nail file. "He is dead, you know. You could just break that thing, break in style. He isn't going to use it anymore. We can always make up some sort of excuse about us catching some vandals or something like that."

Pause. "You know. After you get your pen."


"Oh, he's not so much telling me that as telling me how no one at the university who isn't in his pay class can be trusted, and how the janitors are the worse because they barely have a high school education, and he wouldn't let them wash his car." Amy isn't always so frank about things, and really if there were more spirits around, she wouldn't say a word because that would attract their attention. She tries to limit herself to one a day. Or week. Besides, he'll probably just think I'm crazy and/or pulling his leg. Which works too.
"Honestly? The pen was a bit of a ruse. A lame one. Dr. Orwell left some personal effects that he wants to go to his wife and he's worried that the university or another of his colleagues might try to claim them."
"I don't know how you missed him. He's rather loud and opinionated."
~I'm standing right here, young lady! Who do you think you are?~


At this point he honestly has no idea if she's crazy or not. /She has described him pretty well./ He thinks. Locke looks around the room briefly before looking back to Amy. "You know, as cool as it is and sounds, I can't exactly see dead people. Or communicate with them. And I honestly don't know if you can. I mean, it would be amazing if you could and I would have like fifty million questions to ask you, but that's really not the point right now, is it?"

Athletic as he is not, Locke up and kicks the closet door. "If we're going to sell the story, we might as well make it look interesting, right? I might even let your dead friend take a swing or two at me to rough me up a bit."

"Though really, if he were this concerned, he should have just kept his stuff at home. Or not been so damned overweight." That's in reference to the cause of death but he doesn't perceive how mean it could sound.


Amy fully expects the man to dismiss her words, and she follows him curiously with her eyes when he doesn't. For a moment Orwell is ignored, though it will only be a moment. She's not used to people believing her. Usually, if she chooses to spew such 'nonsense' it's a distraction technique and she knows people will give her a wide berth.
"No it isn't," Amy admits after he kicks the door. "Though you're a professor of … paranormal studies?" Orwell didn't give her a title other than 'superstitious.' "You tell me if I'm crazy or not."
~He can't help you!~ Orwell suddenly bursts out. ~I - I don't trust him.~
Amy rolls her eyes, "You don't trust anyone. If you want this stuff, you're going to have to accept help where you get it, capiche? I am not coming back another day, and you are not hanging around my apartment."
She flashes a 'Really, I'm not a serial killer smile' at Locke. "Like I said. He's loud and obnoxious."
She gives the door a considering look and then claps her hands together once. "Oh! I know! It's one of those older door knobs. I should be able to pop it right out of the case with a little jiggling."

An eyebrow raise is given directly at the woman who is speaking with a dead man. "I don't know that there's an actual classification for me, honestly, but I do teach Pagan studies and various other things." That much isn't difficult to figure out about him, he realizes, but he's not about to question what she says about the spirits from the great beyond. Yet.

"I also don't know if I should be the one to decide crazy. If you really are talking to him, I'm sure he'll tell you /all/ about that. I might not pay attention to the other faculty but I do know how they feel."

Locke is about to try what she suggested about the closet before he stops suddenly and looks at her. "I totally didn't think about that, you know. That 'they' might disturb you in your apartment. How perverted is that?"


"There are a lot weirder things to believe in," Amy says matter-of-factly. Most of those are also true, however. Werewolves - she lives with one, ghosts - she talks to them, vampires - hasn't ever met one (that she knows) but Zach verified their existence a long time ago and that's good enough for her. "Like Elvis being alive, or Jimi Hendrix returning home to Mars."
"Or the Jersey Devil stealing lunches in Central Park."
"People find it easier to disbelieve and not accept what they can't see, prove or test scientifically. I think it makes the world a little bit safer than everyone freaking out and jumping at their own shadows all the time."
Amy gives him a faint smile and shrugs her shoulders, ignoring Orwell's mutterings that she can't do this to him, and Locke can't help. "They disturb me everywhere. Since I was a kid. It's sort of an affliction. Like epilepsy. Or chronic knee pain."
Why am I telling him this?


She's actually talking to him. Like talking talking. Like not telling lies anymore. At least, she's not telling the same lies. I should so be recording this right now.

"No one wants to believe in the things that go bump in the night because people fear what they don't understand. Not that I would blame them for fearing some of the truly evil, or at least untrustworthy. I think my problem is that I'm open to too many things. There are so many things that contradict each other. I do believe that magic exists, and supernatural things. But that's why I'm crazy, you see, because they don't exist." Locke is overly animated at this, using his hands to mimic the gestures of his peers. "No, the best thing for any self-respecting anyone to do is just be a drone, like everyone else."

He then goes back to dealing with the lock and actually ends up breaking it after some time. At least it breaks in a way that the door can be opened instead of screwing Amy out of her prize. "You'd think that there would be a way to turn it off, you know? Or just blink them away. Ghost-be-gone or something. Oh, there's an idea. It would be brilliant, even if it would never sell."


"I don't believe in conformity." Obviously, or else she wouldn't be breaking into the closet of a dead professor. Speaking of which, she can no longer ignore the ranting, panting ghost who materializes in the doorway between the closet and Locke. "That would be an awesome invention." She glares pointedly at Orwell.
~He can go now. Send him away. He needs to go away.~
Amy winces and rubs her forehead. "Do you want your wife to get these things or not?" Beat. "If so, you're going to have to stop yelling at me and let me do what you brought me here for."
Amy really, really doesn't care at this point if Professor Martin is taking her seriously or not. She wnats to be free of Orwell.
She steps toward the closet and frowns when the ghost doesn't move. Then bracing herself, she steps through him. Amy shudders and gasps, it's like being plunged into a bucket of ice water, and Orwell gasps and sputters.
Turning on the overhead light, it's easy enough to find the box that Orwell now doesn't want her to find. Simply follow where the ghost's eyes are darting and how he tries to get in her way.
"I just need to unpack the old relics from this box, and put them in my backpack. I have towels and bubble wrap for padding," Amy explains to Locke as she pulls out the box and opens the lid.
She frowns, as she peers in at the lack of artifacts. Instead she's seeing, envelopes and and CD's and video tapes.
It's at this point that Orwell begins to go insane, telling her to close the box, and a torrent of other words with such emotion that it makes her draw a breath and clutch her head.
"Orwell! Back off!" Amy pushes and she feels it. The snap and the twist, the crackle of faint energy around her and then he's gone. It's only temporarily, but it is a reprieve.


He says nothing at her interactions with the supposed ghost. He'll save his comments for a different time, if there is a different time. Instead Locke does what he does best, and that is be a pest. He peers into the box and notices a distinct lack of artifacts.

"Well, maybe those letters are artifacts? Like they're as old as he was or something? Although I'm pretty sure that cds aren't artifacts. Maybe if he pulled out a floppy I'd totally see the humor in that."

Locke really isn't good at these situations. "Uh, look. Amy was it? You seem like a good enough girl, really. You know, aside from the lying, breaking and entering and all that. Is there anything I can do to help? I mean, I can't really keep the annoying guy away. Or can I? I mean, well, just tell me, okay? If that's to just shut up and leave you alone, I get that, too."


"He's gone," Amy says with a sigh. She rubs her temples and closes her eyes. That little show of power, coupled with Orwell's screaming and ranting has left her with a mild, but growing headache. Taking a few deep breaths, she opens her eyes again and peers back into the box. "I can … push them away, sometimes. It's only temporary, though."
"As crazy as it sounds, I do this a lot. They come to me with unfinished business. Sometimes it means I have to get in places that I can't or shouldn't. I don't always have a story planned so I have to think on my feet."
Maybe she's talking to him because he believes her and because from what she's gathered no one is going to believe him.
She plucks one of the envelopes out of the box and opens it. Maybe she should respect Orwell's privacy, but he sent her, and this isn't what he told her she would find.
It's a letter all right, a letter with a picture of a woman in lingerie. The letter itself has Amy blinking and blushing, and then shoving it back into its envelope as quickly as she can. The others are more of the same, and she's wearing a look of mortification. "So … Orwell was a dirty old man." No wonder he didn't want anyone to find this stuff.


It doesn't really all make sense to him but he's not going to mention that. As far as he knows he was knocked out cold when he ran into Amy earlier and this is all just a dream. "So when do they, you know, actually leave you alone for good? I've been alone all my life. I couldn't deal with someone who was able to be that relentless."

Locke watches as the envelopes are examined and actually grins. "Well, now. I didn't see that one coming. Though I'm not surprised, at least not about the way that he died."

The closest damage then becomes the focus of his attention. "I can cover this. You shouldn't worry about it. Just do what you need to get at least some rest from that pervert. The janitor doesn't know you're here. This time you don't need to worry about excuses."


There is a time and a place for polite deferments and arguments. As far as Amy is concerned this is not that time or place. She grabs the bankers box, situating the lid back on it and stands. She gives Locke a pleasant smile, an actual gracious and friendly one and not just the polite deference. "Thank you, Professor Martin. I do appreciate it."
Hoisting the box, she rolls her shoulders in a shrug. "I'm pretty sure he doesn't want this going to his wife, though I'd be tempted if he wouldn't likely haunt me."
She's almost out the door of Orwell's office when she stops and looks back. "For what it's worth, I don't think you're crazy. But that's coming from the woman who talks to dead people."
"And you really should smile more often. You look more at ease when you really smile. It's good for you. Smiling is good for everybody."

/ What am I doing? This is insane. No, I'm insane. She's insane? This whole day is insane, and witchcraft is not like Harry Potter.

Locke rubs nervously at the back of his neck as he surveys the room. He'll have a few more things to do before it can be convincing, but it can be done. People think he's a loon, not a liar.

He very nearly misses what Amy says, but it does actually cause him to smile. "I think I can do that, especially for someone who has restored a bit of my confidence in my work." He raises his hand to wave at her. "If you ever need anything, let me know. My information is on the campus directory."

You'll never see her again, man.

"Good luck. And don't get caught."

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