Murmurs in the Walls: The Meeting
Episode VII
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Murmurs in the Walls is a serial paranormal mystery novella featuring Judith Temple, psychic detective. This is Season 3 of Case Files of a Psychic Detective.
While Murmurs in the Walls can be read as a standalone story, you may appreciate the characters and their interactions more if you are familiar with Judith’s previous adventures, Down in the Holler and Beasts of the Field.
Season 1, Down in the Holler, is now available in paperback and e-book. You can get your own copy here! Season 2, Beasts of the Field, is currently free to read! Click here to read Beasts of the Field.
← In Episode VI: The Guru, Judith interviewed the mother of a murder victim and confronted a fraudulent spirit healer.
Mountains of shimmering green shot past Judith as she made her way down the long Kentucky highway. The sweet, musty scent of little green shoots and dark earth, of the silty river, of newly budded flowers bursting open, all rushed into her car in fleeting gushes through the slightly opened window. In the back of her mind was a lingering temptation to roll the window down completely, but she had no intention of arriving at the meeting with her hair disheveled and windblown.
“I’ve looked up the suspension policies for Brian’s school district,” Judith said into her car’s Bluetooth speaker system, “but is there anything I should know that would not be included on the district’s website?”
“Basically everything.” Constance’s voice crackled in the spotty reception. “The website tells you the procedures, but that’s, like, seven percent of what’s actually going on in a school meeting.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Everybody in the suspension meeting is going to be overworked and underpaid, and even if they’re really, really phenomenal at their jobs, they have a mountain of paperwork waiting for them as soon as the meeting is over. They’ll have pages and pages of legally required stuff to rattle off to Brian’s mom, and even the administrators may not understand all of it. They just know they have to say it, or they could get sued. Most of the people in those meetings, especially the teachers, are exhausted and burned out and have thirty over-sugared kids to teach as soon as they go back to the classroom. So try to keep it short and simple. And be nice. Like, really nice. If you have time to pick up donuts or coffee to bring to the meeting, that could potentially work wonders.”
“If everyone is as exhausted as you say, then it would be better to bring food with protein or at least some form of nutritional value,” Judith said. A confused, clenching back-and-forth of hot and cold ran through her skin, and her stomach tightened. As a former teacher, these meetings were a language which Constance spoke fluently. To Judith, on the other hand, they were an illogical, boggy maze of paperwork and regulations.
“No,” Constance said. “Donuts. Trust me. Also, you’re still free this evening after you get back, right? Mi Casa has their four-dollar margarita night, and Steve’s getting home early. So I am not about to miss out on taking advantage of that.” A thud sounded in the background of Constance’s call, and she paused. “Okay, nobody’s crying yet. They’re probably fine. Anyway, sure, if you wanna bring protein or something to the meeting, go for it. But also bring donuts.”
From Constance’s end came a stream of unintelligible shouting, then a high-pitched wail. Constance sighed. “Okay, I’ve got to go. One of the boys just turned the broom into a sword. Love you, bye! Sean David McCormick –” Her voice changing suddenly to a powerful yell, the call ended, leaving Judith’s car with no sound but the whoosh of wind and the variegated babble of birds in the trees above her.
“Are you a family advocate?” A middle-aged man, his head more shiny scalp than hair, aimed a suspicious glance at the VISITOR sticker on Judith’s blouse. A lanyard and nametag around his neck identified him as Mr. Griffin, the school principal.
Judith paused, her face tightening as she tried to work out the meaning behind the question. “In a way –”
“In what way?”
“I asked her to come,” Kortney said after a moment’s hesitation.
Mr. Griffin frowned at Judith. “So you’re not a family advocate.”
“I’m here to advocate for Brian and Ms. Pickens,” Judith said. “I would assume that makes me a family advocate.”
“Family advocate is a job title,” said a young, tired-eyed blonde woman at the table in the small, stale meeting room. Her sweater was rumpled, and her shoulders curled in on themselves as though she were trying to take up as little space as possible. “Parents can request to have a family advocate at a meeting. Are you from the Parent Resource Center?”
“No.” Judith straightened her shoulders. “My name is Judith Temple, and I’ve been working with Kortney and Brian. I brought donuts and kolaches and coffee.” Setting down two boxes of food, a carton of coffee, paper cups, creamer packets, and sugar, all of which she had procured in an anxious rush, Judith reached for a chair.
“Working with them in what capacity?” Mr. Griffin’s voice rang with a sledgehammer bluntness that caught Judith by surprise.
“I’ve been investigating the unusual phenomena occurring in their home and consulting with them on how to address it,” she said.
Kortney, her face pale, sat down in a rickety gray chair and started to pick at the flaking laminate of the tabletop.
Mr. Griffin sat across from Judith and squared his body with hers. “What do you mean, ‘unusual phenomena’?”
“I found many things that could be explained through natural causes,” Judith said. “The cold spots in the house were due to a problem with the HVAC system. One room in the house induced dizziness due to faulty architecture –”
“Look,” Mr. Griffin cut in, “we’re here to sign off on a five-day suspension for Brian for disruptive and destructive behavior. What do you do, and what purpose do you serve by being in this meeting?”
Judith glanced at the untouched food and coffee. “Would you like a donut?”
“No. Thank you. I don’t eat sugar.”
“There are kolaches as well –”
Mr. Griffin turned to Kortney. “Why did you want her in this meeting?”
Kortney turned to Mr. Griffin with blank eyes, and in the ensuing silence the air conditioning system rattled to life.
“I’m working with Ms. Pickens and Brian in the capacity of a paranormal investigator,” Judith said, raising her voice over the noisy background hum. “There is evidence that Brian is exhibiting RSPK, or recurrent spontaneous psychokinesis, which is likely causing the disruptions and destructive behavior reported at school. A few interactions with Brian are enough to show that he is not one to be destructive –”
“What are you talking about?” Mr. Griffin’s arms were crossed, his sharp, watery eyes boring hard into Judith.
Beside Judith, Kortney stared at her chipped fingernails. Her head tilted, the young teacher watched Judith with a confused pucker on her face.
“Recurrent spontaneous psychokinesis refers to unintentional psychokinesis. That is, accidentally moving objects with mental rather than physical energy. It is rare, but when it does occur it often involves preteen or teenage subjects undergoing some type of emotional stress. They may accidentally cause objects to break or move or even fly around the room. But the salient point I’m trying to make is that Brian is not intentionally causing any damage or disruption. In such cases, RSPK is purely unintentional. The agent has no conscious control over it.”
Mr. Griffin scoffed. He looked back and forth between Judith and Kortney. “What are you two trying to do, get us to cancel the suspension? This is just about the most absurd strategy I’ve ever seen.”
“Brian didn’t do nothin’ on purpose,” Kortney snapped. “If he broke anythin’, he didn’t mean to. He’s a good kid, a really good kid.”
“I’ve been working in this district for twenty-two years,” Mr. Griffin said, drawing himself up to his full, not terribly impressive height. “There are lots of kids who act one way at home and a totally different way at school. Brian has been disrupting his classroom and destroying school property –”
“Brian’s a really sweet boy,” the young blonde woman said. Mr. Griffin’s eyes swiveled toward her, a fiery, affronted gleam bursting into his face. “I was surprised when he started acting out.”
“He’s not actin’ out,” Kortney said, red patches rising in her cheeks. “Not on purpose, anyway.”
“Can you describe what he has done?” Judith said to the teacher. Then she caught herself. Be nice, Constance had told her. Really nice. “Please.”
“Well,” the teacher said, faltering. “He’s broken the smartboard in the classroom several times, and he shattered a whole box of lightbulbs –”
“Tell me exactly how he did it. What happened to the smartboard?”
“A couple times he went up to use it for an activity, and each time at one point or another I had to turn away for a minute or so to deal with another student. When I turned back around, the screen was blue and unresponsive. And then another time he threw a stapler at it when I wasn’t looking, and it embedded in the screen. It was completely destroyed, and the district still hasn’t replaced it.”
“Where did the stapler come from?”
“My-my desk, I think.”
“Where is your desk in relation to the smartboard?” Judith said.
“On the other side of the room, by the door.
“Did you see Brian near your desk or witness him moving across the room?”
“No, my back was to him –”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know,” the teacher said, her breath coming faster. “A few seconds, I guess.”
“Did any of the other students tell you that he threw it?”
“No, but they’re really good about not tattling on each other –”
“Don’t call it tattling,” Mr. Griffin said. “If something’s going on, we want the students to inform us. Calling it tattling discourages openness.”
“What you’re saying,” Judith said, “is that Brian supposedly ran across the room, grabbed a stapler, threw it with enough force to embed it in the smartboard, then ran back, all in the few seconds that your back was turned? And not a single student claimed to have seen him do it. How much force does it take to embed a stapler in a smartboard? Is that even physically possible for a child Brian’s age?”
“Sure it is.” Mr. Griffin’s face and voice were taut as he turned to Kortney. “Put him in baseball or something to give him an outlet. But he’s still suspended.”
A frown blooming between her eyebrows, the teacher watched Judith with a curious intensity in her tired eyes.
“Are there cameras in the classroom?” Judith’s skin was no longer running hot and cold, though a buzzing like a high-tension wire reverberated in her ears. This was a problem to solve, a quandary with a solution that she could provide. The evidence was flimsy, circumstantial at best.
“Only in the hallways.” Mr. Griffin’s mouth was a narrow line. “This ridiculous conversation has gone on far longer than it should have. Ms. Pickens, I have paperwork here for Brian –”
“What about the box of lightbulbs that shattered?” Judith said. “Did that happen in the hallway? How long do you keep video footage?”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Griffin snapped. “Miss Whatever-your-name-is.”
“Temple. Judith Temple.”
“We’re here to conduct a parent meeting to address Brian’s suspension. We’re not here to listen to bizarre theories about him breaking stuff with psycho-whatever.” He gestured to the young teacher. “Miss Bledsoe’s class finishes recess in thirty minutes, and she has to be back in the classroom by the time they’re done because we don’t have anyone available to cover for her. So if you can’t be quiet and let us get on with the meeting, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“But Brian shouldn’t be suspended at all. He didn’t intentionally destroy anything.”
“You have absolutely no evidence of your psycho-babble nonsense. He damaged school property –”
“I’m trying to find evidence that can prove Brian didn’t intentionally, physically –”
“Don’t interrupt me!”
Judith sat back, pressing her lips together. Constance had told her to be nice. In one sense, she had to acknowledge that Mr. Griffin did have a point; interrupting a school administrator likely didn’t fall under the category of being really nice. “I apologize.” She glanced down at her balled fists as Mr. Griffin took a noisy breath. “I do feel the need to point out, though, that I was not the only one interrupting.”
Judith’s hands were cold and jittery as she selected Constance’s number from her recent calls. The phone rang and rang again, and her breath came in quick, hard gasps as she navigated her way out of the school parking lot in the direction of Kortney’s house.
Kortney would be finished with the meeting soon, and then Judith could sit down with her and Brian to talk about strategies, the techniques Bob had explained to her. What had Bob said, again? Her thoughts fritzed, coming in stops and starts.
Breaking rules and causing trouble was not entirely unfamiliar territory for Judith. She had no problem ignoring or pushing back against illogical restrictions. But something about being escorted off school property by a jelly-waisted school security guard had her heart thudding so hard she could barely hear Constance’s phone go to voicemail.
She needed something, some external way to process the fight-or-flight churning in her head, or she would turn inward in a spiral of anxious panic. And that never ended well. Never.
At a stop sign, Judith searched through her recent calls. Constance was busy. Her husband, Steve, would be baffled as to why Judith would call him without a clear and obvious purpose. Her brother was working, always. Her father – no, this was a matter of emotional support, not a problem to be solved. Her mother – no. She didn’t need a lecture about her ‘questionable involvement in pseudoscience’.
Judith stared at the one remaining name in her list.
A honk sounded from behind her, and Judith jerked her car back into motion.
She drove another few blocks down the main street of the tiny town. The buildings were dingy at best, with forest overgrowth encroaching on the dwindling population as though trying to reclaim its lost space. As her breath slowed, her thoughts whirred, flitting back and forth in indecision.
Judith wasn’t used to indecision, and she did not enjoy it, not in the slightest.
A handful of cars passed her on the street before she reached the town’s lone stop light and slowed again to a halt. Judith jabbed the name with her finger and bit her lip as the phone rang once, twice –
“Hey,” came Tim’s voice, and even over her car speaker she could hear that he was smiling. “What’s up?”
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→ Keep reading! Episode VIII: The Intervention
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Ooooo, Tim's in the Emotional Support category, and we know what that means!
(There's a line in The Caine Mutiny that's always stuck with me about this: a character, Willie Keith, is wanting to talk to the girl he'll eventually marry, and the narrator notes that he didn't know it yet, but he was experiencing that feeling of a husband who wants to talk things over with his wife. I've never forgotten that line, and I feel like Judith has the reverse here. :)
> "I do feel the need to point out, though, that I was not the only one interrupting."
Oh no! :) Rule one of being a woman told by a man not to interrupt during a meeting is to back down immediately and revert to *gendered* communication rules for the duration (butter up the man like an English muffin, pretend to know one's place, and manipulate). An understandable error. I hope someone enjoyed the donuts.