Chapter 13: Chapter 13: The Skull of Doom, Part 13

NARRATIVE of WARD COURIER

September, 2007

SOUTH WALES, NY

I should introduce myself. I'm Trevor Ward Courier, the voice of this book. I usually go by Ward. So you can visualize me, I'm a white guy about about six feet high and one-seventy heavy. I look like someone of my ancestry, a European mutt: Irish, Scottish, German, and English, so far as we know. I have brown hair, blue-green eyes, a sharp nose, and kind of a long skull. I am an English teacher and department chairman at an independent boarding school in rural Western New York.

I experienced a lot of what you are going to read in these pages, and when you see the word "I" or "me" in here and it's not part of a quote, the observations presented should be mine. I have a pretty good handle on the things I didn't see from interviewing some of the other players. Those I can imaginatively recreate for you, and they will be in the third person voice and often the present tense. I write those scenes as if they're happening in a film.

This is going to be two rambling, discursive books, put into one for the purposes of e-publishing. They are not going to have the tightness of the literary masterpieces I admire, ones with that sense of no word out of place and none that should be added or axed. You may even find a few typos. I keep finding them, along with awkwardnesses and blunders. But now that I've decided to write it, I have to get this story out.

This book is going to hop around in a couple of different plot tracks that took place over the span of five years. Things were happening at different times across the Americas, and from the way things came together in the end, I figured the best way to present them was in their rough chronology. A certain portion of this book, too, is comprised of my published writings exactly as they appeared, so you can see what there was in them that drew the official interest that brought me into the action. I will do my best at keeping them clear so you can keep it all straight.

I have a master's degree in British literature and know my way pretty well around European lit in general. I have a side-interest, though, that is my real niche of specialization in life: the paranormal. I'm the authority in my home region, upstate New York, though largely due my handful of books and the lack of any serious competition. I'm a reasonable scholar and interpreter of paranormal subjects and situations in general.

I have the local reputation of being a psychic detective, which I do nothing to encourage. Possibly because it is the handiest thing for people to get their heads around, it is impossible to talk people out of thinking it. I don't like false titles, but the impression certainly helps my research. I get called in on cases I would never have heard about otherwise. Lest you start getting images of the caped Dr. Strange or Dion Fortune's fictional Dr. Taverner, though, I should clarify that I am more of a historian and folklorist. I am no exorcist, either. Wouldn't touch the stuff without a Hell of a lot more training, as in, a career's worth.

There are plenty of ghost hunters in the upstate, some of them reasonably prominent. If you want an expert at running around in the dark with surveillance gadgets, any one of them would be better than I am. The upstate likewise has loads of psychics, at least people who say they are, plus UFO-geeks, exorcists, gurus, mystics, cult-leaders, spiritual healers, and representatives of just about every alternative -ism you can think of. Western New York, after all, was the home of so many alternative religious cults and communities that early in its days of white settlement it was nicknamed things like "the Burned-over District" and "the Spirit Way." It was as if the first observers thought there could have been something special about the territory itself. This is also classic Seneca country, and the insights of one of their prominent young elders is a major factor in the events these pages unfold.

I, however, am none of the above. I'm a profiler. I operate toward the paranormal with an almost Cartesian - "I think, therefore I am" - system of affirming by doubting. I'm like Peter Sellers' Inspector Clouseau: "I believe everything and I believe nothing." I start by presuming that everything I hear is just a report - human testimony. It can't all be true; I can't presume it's all false. I look for parallels in time, place, and tradition, and work back from there toward a consensus of likelihood. While certainty may not await us in any of these subject areas, there is a surprising amount you can learn through these means.

In matters paranormal, I record what people say and interpret what they have written. I try to make my conjecture based on broad patterns, not the testimony of single persons and certainly not on my own feelings or intuitions. I do not discount supernatural explanations for things; I merely save them for the last possibility standing. And I do not project meaning onto incoherent situations, either.

Under the pen name Mason Winfield, I've written a couple books about the supernatural-paranormal history of my home region, Western New York, as well as other books on the War of 1812 and the traditions of the upstate Native American League of Six Nations, the Iroquois/Hodenosaunee. I also have a website and publish many articles in magazines and papers in a typical year. Some people are convinced there really is a Mason Winfield. Hah. Does that sound like a real name? Mason Winfield? Who would name their kid Mason Winfield?

There are other people in upstate New York who write about paranormal subjects. My real niche is my broad base and my historic, objective take on the people, places, and events in the supernatural-paranormal past and present of my home region. If somebody wanted a crash course in the upstate paranormal, I would be the natural person to come to. If somebody wanted help interpreting any regional development that seemed related to any paranormal subject, I would typically get that first call.

One morning in September 2007 I checked my mailbox in the faculty lounge and spotted one of the notorious pink notes used to record messages for the faculty that come in through phone calls. This one was a summons to meet with Prescott Burns, our venerable headmaster, right after lunch in his office. "Prez," we called him, or "PB." There were variants among the faculty, like "Peanut Butter," and, "the Sandwich," and "PB-and-J," which of course evolved into just "and-J," sounding often like "NJ." "Talkin' to the Sandwich," one of us might say about heading to a meeting with him, or even, "Going to lunch," or "Brown-bagging it." My colleagues are inveterate nicknamers. Even people like me who don't pick up nicknames anywhere else get them here. If you're sensitive, don't work here.

Because of my initials - TWC, which I use to sign the countless passes and memos we exchange every day - I'm often referred to as "Cable Guy," after Time Warner Cable. Sometimes it's shortened to "T-Dub," or just "Cable." Sometimes it's "Larry," after the comedian, "Larry the Cable Guy." When I was a kid I went by my first name a lot, and people who have known me for a long time often call me "Trev." My mother has always called me "Trevor."

Sometimes a call to the boss' office is a trouble-sign, but I couldn't think of anything this one could be about. I hadn't skipped a study hall or gym duty, had a major fight with a student or colleague, spoken indiscreetly to a trustee, or shown up massively late for anything. At least not recently. That I could recall. I went in as a blank slate.

It was a bright afternoon about 1:45. I found PB in the little lobby of his spacious office conducting a meeting with the math chairman and the bookstore manager. He had his non-confidential meetings here.

I always liked the way PB dressed, like the classic New England headmaster. That day he had on dark grey pants, a powder blue Oxford shirt, and a brown herringbone tweed that went really well together. I could have done without the bow-tie - I've never once worn one - but that was an occasional given with PB. His full head of impeccably clipped white hair was a living landmark on the campus. It stood out against a crowd of campus walkers like a torch in the darkness. He got up when he saw me and met me at the door.

"Ward, I've got a call in from Ted Bennett. He's the head of the local FBI. He's asked me about you and I told him you're no terrorist. He'd like to speak to you in his office in the city. Can you get in there to see him sometime soon?"

"Well, sure," I said. "Any idea what it's about?"

"I'm pretty sure it's got something to do with one of your books," he said. "Sounds like a research question and he'd like to discuss it in person."

"I'll call him," I said.

"If you can do anything to help Ted out, I hope you'll give it due consideration," said Prescott Burns. "His dad was on the Pennsylvania with me when we were both just a little younger than you. And give him my best. I haven't seen him since he was in Sunday School."

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