As the editor of the local paper, there's been many times where I pop into the office in the evenings when everyone has gone home, just so I can get some additional work done.
It's actually peaceful. No fax machines going off, no one barging into my office venting about deadlines, no chatter or humming of what is commonplace in a bustling newsroom.
So, up until fairly recently, I've actually quite enjoyed that silent alone-time to bang out extra articles.
That's starting to change.
There's been a few stories about the Humboldt Journal's allegedly haunted premises. As a newcomer, I'm not fully in the know about the building's past but I do know that before the paper moved in here a few years ago, it used to be a restaurant. And apparently, spooky things would happen here after-hours.
I can attest to that.
There's been four or five times where I've been sitting in my office, typing away on the computer, when out of the corner of my eye, I see someone walk by.
"I'm just imagining things," I tell myself. "It's just the lights from the cars on the street reflected on my office window."
Hey, I think it's good to be a healthy skeptic.
But it happened again. And again. And the images became clearer and clearer; what I saw in my peripheral as a blur going by became a shape of someone, that person walking past the receptionist area.
The hair on my neck would stand up, little goose pimples forming along my arms.
I'm all alone, I tell myself. There's no one else here, so how is this possible?
As I sat there clicking away at my article, the only sound being the clackity-clack of my keyboard and the rhythmic ticking of my office clock, I heard it.
The printer right outside my office was going off. At first, I didn't really react, assuming it was just a fax coming through. But when I glanced up, I realized it was dozens of pages being printed off, pages of old news releases and ad invoices.
"There must be someone else here then," I thought.
So I got up and slowly walked down to the composition area, where our graphic designers work. No one was in their office.
I peeked around at the sales desk.
No one was sitting behind it.
It was just me.
I quickly scuttled back to my office and parked myself behind my desk, turning my mini heater on because the building had suddenly gotten quite chilly.
I continued working.
About half an hour later, my work was interrupted by the distinct sound of someone walking upstairs, in our group publisher Brent Fitzpatrick's office.
Did someone come in and I just didn't hear them?
That's odd, I thought. Brent isn't even in town this week.
I somehow mustered up the courage to once again get up and scope out the building. I peered up into Brent's office.
Dark. The lights were off. Not a trace of anyone.
"Well of course. I am the only one here, after all."
But I was still shaking more than a hooker at a police convention.
These same incidents have happened several times but the most recent one was Thanksgiving Monday.
While everyone else was probably enjoying a juicy turkey and scrumptious stuffing, I was nestled into my office at work, sweatpants on and coffee in hand, writing out, ironically, the latest edition of the Haunted Humboldt series.
I was enjoying the quiet, when suddenly I heard someone come in the back door. It was unmistakable - it's the same sound I hear every day at work of the door opening and slamming shut and then someone walking briskly down the hall.
I didn't think anything of it, assuming Krista, our production manager, had stopped in to do a couple of things with the layout of that week's issue.
Like myself, Krista sometimes works evenings or weekends just to knock some work out of the way and that's probably who came in just now, I thought.
I continued writing when after noticing a few minutes had gone by without another sound, I decided to go see Krista myself.
I got quite the surprise.
No one was here, her desk bare, chair empty.
"I would have obviously heard someone leave," I thought.
I went and checked the back door.
Locked, but the alarm wasn't set.
If one of my co-workers had stopped by the office and then left, assuming no one else was here, they would have set the alarm.
The only other plausible explanation is that I was just hearing things, but I know I wasn't. I'd bet my right-hand (which is my writing hand) that someone came in that back door and then just vanished without a trace.
So as I nervously made my way back to my office, to once again sit shaking like a leaf, nerves building, goose pimples forming, the printer went off again.
"That does it, I'm calling Braedon and getting him to come over here," I told myself.
By this time, it was around 9 p.m. and I'd been at work for a few hours, expecting to be done in the next hour or so.
"But what am I gonna do? Make him sit in the lobby with a baseball bat while I type at my computer?"
I decided against it and knowing Monday night football was on, I doubt Braedon would have been eager to forgo the game to instead sit outside my office door on ghost duty.
As I was finally wrapping up my stories, I caught the quick millisecond glimpse of someone walking past my door.
I put on my sweatshirt.
It was getting quite cold in my office.
"Maybe I'll just finish the rest of my stories at home," I thought.
