Above me the lurid red glow of two EXIT signs make the room far more sinister than during the bright New Mexico day, when the sun shines through the windows and you can almost imagine children playing in these old, long empty dorms. The shouts and laughter of children still echo in this empty space, unseen drafts the only remnants of their young energy.
I sleep in the living room, adjacent to the kitchen, in what must have been the dorm mothers’ (or fathers’) room, that unknown caretaker who watched over a long hallway of now-empty dorm rooms. It is said that ghosts haunt this place, this palimpsest of three storied life, each floor holding young occupants of New Mexico School of the Deaf who are now most certainly well within their teens and twenties.
Even the wary security man who woke me up yesterday morning seemed to crouch somewhat inside himself, warding off the emptiness of the place with gruff candor as he let me know that maintenance would be working during the day. He shuffled off, door closing behind him as the sunlight flashed and pulsed in the room.
The large LED scroll sign-cum-clock reads 12:13 AM as I write this, feeling chills course up my body as I imagine things going bump in the night, ghostly laughter (actually heard by Adam’s classmate Ashley), and the strange sense that this place has energy left over from its past life, energy that will be changed forever when the renovations begin in earnest.
My heart skips a beat when I think about getting up and looking behind me, around me, for any sign that this place is haunted, haunted like my grandfather occasionally haunts my family, signaling his presence with lights that snap on and off abruptly (I love and miss you, Grandfather).
I’m going now, going to the restroom and dive into bed—may Fortune favor me with a good night’s sleep and friendly spirits.
