The Haunted Armory

         The Army National Guard has, in most every community, a building called the Armory. The armory houses offices, classrooms, supplies and weapons, a yard for vehicles, and usually a large indoor hall where the citizens train as soldiers in their monthy musters.

         Sometimes, the armory is a new building, made just for the purpose of the units that occupy it. More often than not, the armory is an old building, sometimes at the site for generations. And occasionally, the armory is built on land previously occupied by something else. This story is about one of those...

         There are full-time soldiers at every armory, who man the supply room, maintain the vehicles, and do all the administration for the unit in residence. Just ask the full-time troops at the Haunted Armory, and they'll tell you all about it...

         Like the time when the sergeant with the hunting dog stopped by, and the dog would not follow his master into the building, but sat and stared at the light above the entrance, and would not move past the threshold...

         Or the story the supply sergeant tells, of the doors opening and closing after he had locked the place and shut the windows, certain he was the only one there...

         And the story of the young, macho, tough sports-hero soldier, who refused to enter the cavernous drill hall after dark, on account of the whispers in the north-west corner...

         Or, my own story, of what happened to me after the lights went out.

         Three years past, our company was drilling at an outdoor training site an hour's drive away. It was a three-day drill, not the usual two-day weekend; we formed up on Friday night, on October 31st. While the unit convoyed out, I was staying the night at the armory, meeting two others there early next morning to do a community function, then leaving afterwards to join the company at the training site. Being the only man staying there, the building had to be secured after the convoy rolled out. All doors were locked, and I was given the keys. The full-timers made jokes to me.

         "You do realize", one said, "that you're by yourself here on Halloween night?"

         "Don't let the boogey-men get ya!" another teased.

         "And no trick-or-treaters!" laughed a third.

         After the convoy finally rolled out, I decided to make the rounds of the compound, and assured myself all was secure. The gate to the motor pool was closed and locked. I headed back to the company orderly room, with its bare cinder-block walls, metal window frames, and standard government-issue furnishings.

         It turned out that my being there in the orderly room was more convenient, as one platoon had left equipment behind; I could bring it with me when I linked up with the company the next day. I walked out of the orderly room, headed to the platoon bay to find the equipment.

         "There's someone here", said the voice in the drill hall.

         I stopped on a dime. I knew the history of the Haunted Armory, as we all did. I moved slowly to the door to the drill hall, and opened it, peering through before entering. The streetlights outside gave enough light through the windows to see by. I could see the other doors. I could see the blackboards on the walls. I could see nothing else. I left the hall, closed the door, and went down the corridor to the bay for the equipment. And I checked the fire exit, just in case.

         Satisfied that all was secure, I returned to the orderly room, and passed the evening emailing and surfing the Web for military chatter. Several hours passed quietly, when I went out to get a drink of water and hit the rest room before curling up on the sofa for the night. As it was late October, you could hear the heating system pumping warm air out of the ducts, but I noticed the chilly air towards the bathroom.

         The woman at the end of the corridor looked at me a moment, before quickly ducking through the wall...

         Just as a car might chirp its tires on wet pavement when suddenly accelerating, so did my mind do something similar, as I processed what I just saw. I knew there was no one else in the building, because I had checked the entries. The woman's form was backlit from the light above the fire exit; her hair was haloed, wispy and straggled. But her form was translucent...

         I had had paranormal experiences before. I considered myself sensitive to these events. And I realized, in that moment, that I was having one such event now. The stories of the Haunted Armory were true, there could be no further doubt. And I decided on what to do. I stepped onto the drill hall floor, and closed the door behind me, listening to the silence. I had heard the story of the north-west corner, and watched as I listened. Nothing disturbed the silence except the faraway hum of the heating ducts. And after a minute more, I spoke to the air.

         "Good evening. My name is John. I'm staying here tonight, just by myself. I'm sleeping in the office, but I might step out to the bathroom. The rest of the place is yours, I won't bother you. Good night."

         I left the drill hall, closed the door, got my drink of water (and a cup of coffee), and went back to the laptop in the orderly room. Later, after keeping one ear cocked for any other appearences, I went into the First Sergeant's office and laid down to try and sleep, setting the alarm for the morning.

         That night, I got up off the couch, and stepped back out into the orderly room. The office was a Victorian parlor, with fine wood panelling and mahogany trim. Brocade curtains adorned the windows, which were panelled with wood. Hurricane lamps sat upon tables, illuminating the walls covered with curios and paintings of outdoor scenes. I looked around at the dozen or so people there, seated and standing in groups of twos and threes; some social gathering was in progress. Helping myself to a cup from an ornate Royal Doulton tea set, I slowly moved between the overstuffed chairs, and made light pleasant talk with people as I approached.

         The people there, men and women, were dressed in a mix of eras, some from the Seventies, some from the Forties, but all casual and neat. There was no hint of age or corruption; everything was clean and, in a word, dead - but not dead in the sense of decay or death. Dead in the sense of the lack of change or growth; as if all there were frozen, a snapshot moment in time.

         The people at this gathering looked at me as they returned my greetings. They nodded politely, answered in short phrases, and asked only few questions. Some asked my name; others my job. As I circuited the parlor, I became aware that I was being observed, watched by these people. They were curious; they wanted to learn more about me. I did not feel threatened at any time. I was simply the object of curious fascination to the members of the gathering.

         I do not recall how long I spent at the party, before I made my goodbyes, and left by the same door, entering the First Sergeant's office and laying back down on the couch, dropping off to sleep. When I next realized, the sun was just peeking over the trees outside, and the alarm had yet to go off. I felt as if I had slept the whole night, totally rested. The phone rang out in the orderly room. I stood up, moved to the office with its spare government furnishings and bare cinder-block walls, and answered the phone, getting ready for the morning's business. I happened to glance at my watch.

         It was dawn, the morning of November 1st.

         EPILOGUE: A Google search about the Haunted Armory revealed no public records of any building on the site, before the armory was built thirty years ago. The origins of the events I tell you will require more and better research than is available. But there is no doubting, in my view, the reality of what happened that night, nor the presence of the people I met.

         Last month, my company moved to another armory, located closer to the command group. Another unit took our place, and now calls the Haunted Armory their home. And on one of those last days there, I walked over to the north-west corner of the drill hall, and whispered:

         "Good Morning. It's John - you remember me. I'm sorry we have to leave, but our orders tell us otherwise. I wish I could have seen you again. There will be new people working here. Please make them feel comfortable. Goodbye."

         All during the final few days we were there, things began to happen. HUMMWV's and trucks would not start, their batteries draining overnight. The phones stopped working, as did the Internet. Equipment we thought was gone, turned up in corners of the supply room.

         It occured to me, and others there - they did not wish for us to leave.