Meeting Place of the Dead. Richard Palmisano

this evening, wind chimes were introduced to the mix, hung from a nail on the studio wall. The digital recorder was once again placed in the staircase alcove and the E. Probe 1.0 — this time adjusted to its lowest sensitivity setting — was placed on a chair in the northwest room. If someone really wished to activate the alarm, they would need to grip the aerial tightly to do so.

      Retrieving the equipment three hours and twenty-one minutes later, I was surprised to discover the normally reliable digital recorder registered “Low Battery” and could not be turned off, no matter what I tried, which was a first. Checking the powder traps before exiting, I noted they had not been disturbed.

      Arriving back home and entering the house with the equipment in my arms, I looked down in time to see a button on the recorder being pressed, as by a pen cap, causing the recorder to spring back to life! The battery now indicated “Half Power” and the whole unit returned to function normally.

      Review of the recording revealed neither the wind chimes nor the E. Probe 1.0 had been moved or alarmed, however it was interesting to note that the recording stopped itself the very second I am heard unlocking the back door of the cottage. As noted earlier, this recorder has the capacity to store almost nine hours of data. Was this pure coincidence, a random malfunction or perhaps someone taking one last “suck” of energy from the recorder just before I walked in? If the latter, was I to derive a message from this action?

      Visit #5 — January 16

      By 7:48 p.m. I was back in the car jotting notes on this evening’s experiment. Tonight I introduced a pad of paper and a charcoal pencil as well as a Pop-O-Matic die bubble to the cottage. The recorder (loaded with fresh batteries) was left on the kitchen counter pointed toward the studio and the E. Probe 1.0 (now adjusted one notch higher than its lowest sensitivity setting) was left in the smallest room across from the second-floor staircase.

      I silently demonstrated how to shake the die up by pressing the plastic bubble and allowing the die to come to a full rest before repeating this action several more times for the benefit of anyone observing me. I left the die at the number 4, checked the powder traps, and took several photos before exiting.

      I detected traces of the familiar cottage air freshener scent around me upon entering the car, but this dissipated quickly and did not remain.

      By the time I returned three hours later, I decided the silent treatment I was trying to maintain had lost any effectiveness it may have ever had on the unseen residents of the cottage. After all, how were the ghosts to know what I was expecting of them for my recordings if I didn’t ask them to do something? Gathering up the recorder and the E. Probe 1.0, I respectfully invited whoever was listening to convey a message back to me using the paper and pencil, the powder, or by shifting the die to a number that held some significance to them, before leaving for the night.

      Reviewing the recording of this evening revealed some intriguing phenomena: several knocking sounds were captured, smaller taps and a single, loud footfall. But what made this recording even more unique was the multiple number of times the die bubble — or something that sounded similar — was popped without changing the top-face of the die (the number 4) or shifting it from its resting place inside the plastic bubble. In other words, what I kept hearing was an imitation of the actual distinct popping sound.

      As for the message that I broke my silence to ask for, I believe I received it loud and clear a few short hours later.

      January 17, 1:25 a.m.

      For the record, I am not an avid dreamer. I’m sure I do dream, but like many people, I forget the majority of them the moment I awake.

      Crawling into bed at a ridiculously late hour, I quickly found myself falling into blissful sleep. What seemed like a matter of minutes later, between the stages of being fully awake and in deep sleep, inside what I could best describe as my “mind’s eye,” I perceived an adult male standing over me, next to my side of the bed. Wasting no time, the figure leaned forward and shouted, “PETER ROE!” like a drill sergeant.

      In a foggy-minded delirium, I bolted upright and swung my legs off the side of the bed, ready to respond obediently, replying, “Yes? What?”

      The lack of a response made me realize I was speaking to no one. Thankfully, my knee-jerk reply wasn’t loud and abrupt enough to wake my wife. While still cognitive of this extraordinary occurrence and the fact that it was significant enough to remember, I took note of the time but was still too tired to feel afraid. I returned to the warmth of our comforter and fell into a deep sleep.

      Visit #6 — January 19

      Recalling the team’s astounding success during the second investigation, I decided to try my own daytime experiment beginning at 10:30 a.m. I placed the recorder on an easel in the studio, the mic pointed toward the open door to the kitchen, beyond. Adjusting the E. Probe 1.0 one notch higher than the last visit, I set that down on the windowsill of the small room at the top of the stairs.

      There were no powder disturbances, no markings of charcoal pencil on the pad of paper, no movement of the bubble die, and no residual household odours followed me to the car. Though I addressed the house politely before exiting, I was careful not to empower anyone listening by acknowledging the strange event of a couple days’ previous.

      By 1:37 p.m., I was back in the car, having retrieved the recorder and E. Probe 1.0. I had arrived to find the alarm was once again blaring and — though it was placed across the length of the cottage and upstairs — had ruined a third recording by drowning out the sounds of the building. Upon analysis, this time someone touched off the alarm nearly sixteen minutes after I had left the cottage. Again, there were no powder, pencil, or die changes.

      The positive aspect of this experiment was that I had finally found “the sweet spot” on the alarm for this location.

      Visit #7 — January 23

      The window for my solo data-collecting was closing fast. I returned to the cottage at my first opportunity, at 7:39 p.m., eager to try another new tactic.

      Checking the powder traps, paper pad, and die bubble to find there were still no changes in any of them, I addressed the house good-naturedly and pointed out that the opportunity to communicate with me alone was rapidly coming to an end, politely saying that no more interested parties would be available to hear their concerns after The Searcher Group was finished visiting with them.

      Moving to the Pop-O-Matic bubble, I depressed it to shake up the die several times, and each time I did so, I enthusiastically called out the number that came up.

      I reasoned based on the imitation popping sounds that had been recorded during Visit #5, that perhaps if a new “norm” of shouting out the appropriate numbers was introduced, then perhaps whoever was imitating the popping sound might follow suit and shout the numbers they “saw” or imagined were coming up, as well (and be recorded, doing so). It was a long shot, but worth trying.

      Analysis of the three-hour recording turned up some interesting results. There were several more imitation die-popping sounds, but no numbers were called out after each ‘pop,’ as I had demonstrated. The recorder, which had been placed on the window shared between the dining room and the kitchen, picked up subtle metallic jingling noises quite close to it. This jingling resembled a nearby charm bracelet more than a set of keys being shaken or several coins clinking together.

      January 25, 12:20 a.m.

      In hindsight, perhaps my requests for communication with the residents of the cottage were truly answered, only they were not to be on my terms.

      Apart from the bizarre mid-sleep occurrence of January 17, what happened on this morning made me reconsider what I would otherwise have chalked up to exhaustion and an overactive imagination.

      Deciding to go to bed at another ridiculous work-week hour, I sauntered along the half-lit hallway toward our bedroom. Light streamed into the dark of the hall from the bathroom on the left, revealing the dim outlines of the spare room door and our daughter’s bedroom door, opposite.

      As I took two or three steps forward, a loud snap suddenly emanated from the threshold of