The Medallion
"They say dogs know, that dogs can tell," the old man said, his words hardly more than a whisper.
"You talking to me?" the fellow on the next stool asked—a student, disheveled, rubbing at the sand in his eyes.
"I said dogs can tell."
"I heard what ya said. Are you talking to me?"
The old man's words were mumbly, but they had a certain insistence about them. The student glanced at his watch: seven forty-eight. He had an eight o'clock class—thermodynamics—the last class of what had been a powerfully long day, a day that had started before sunup, had started at five a.m. The student, stocky, with a shock of brown hair shaved at the temples, had come from Martin Marietta several hours earlier, where he worked a day job, a job that forced him to take night classes if he wanted to finish his engineering degree. He sat there in the lunchroom under Gilbert Hall, studying his half-empty styrofoam cup, this stranger on the next stool. Styrofoam, now there's an engineering wonder—chemical engineering, wasn't it?
Where did that thought come from?
The old man patted the student's arm, then dug his fingers in. "Dogs can tell," he said again.
"Hey, take it easy." The student twisted but couldn't pull his arm out of the old man's vice-like hold. He stared at the man—stared into his face, his eyes. Could he be some spooky old professor who should have been retired a couple decades ago?
Surely not. The senior professors he knew had silvery gray hair, well styled, while this man's hair was stark white and shaggy. And his face—ashen, lines carved in it like trenches. And that skin under his chin, it flapped as he rambled on about dogs.
Everything about him said ancient, the ill-fitting sweater that smelled of what, stale cigar smoke? Singed flesh? Faded brown, coming out at the elbows. Baggy trousers, ripped and patched below one knee.
Everything except the man's shoes. The student gaped at them—high-end Adidas—sneakers. A gift from his grandson? Or maybe they were his grandson's?
The vice grip relaxed, and the student recovered his arm. He peered at the man's hand so powerful, the skin as smooth, as youthful as a teenager's.
"Dogs," the old man said. "I should have paid more attention."
"What dogs? What are you talking about?"
"Last night. I should have paid more attention."
"Paid more attention to what?"
"My dog."
"Oh sure, everyone oughta listen to his dog. Fella, you gotta excuse me, I've gotta get to class." The student swirled the last dregs of his coffee in his cup and tossed them back. As he rose, that vicelike grip again bit into his arm. It hauled him back down onto the stool.
"Perkins Hall is haunted, you know," the old man said, his voice husky, feverish.
"Aw, come on, I know it's Halloween. You're going to make me late for class."
"Where's your class?"
"In Perkins. Where else?"
"I wouldn't go if I were you. No, I wouldn't go," the old man said. He squeezed the student's arm.
Three people—students, by their book bags—rose from a table in the far corner of the room. They hefted their bags to their shoulders and made their way toward the door where they chucked their cups and wadded napkins into a trash can.
"Night, Ray," they called as one to the counterman checking the day's receipts.
"Ya all come back," the counterman sang out to them. "Tomorrow, I'll put new grounds in the coffeepot for you."
The old man watched the departing students in the mirror above the counter.
"Let's go over there," he said, gesturing toward the vacated table. He pushed his companion along by the elbow. "You got to be warned."
The student twisted, but couldn't break free from that death grip. "Can't you let go of my arm, man?"
"No." The old man shoved him into an empty chair, then slipped into the chair beside him.
"Yeah, well—" The student tried to laugh, but no laugh came out. "You're really gonna tell me this story, aren'tcha?"
"Yesssss." The old man stretched the word. He gave it the sound of a snake hungering for a meal.
"I'm like you," he said, wagging a finger in the student's face. "I heard the stories, and like you, I didn't believe them. I told everybody, hell, old buildings creak and groan. That's normal. That's not spooks. And Perkins Hall is old."
The student glanced to the side, looking for an escape, but the old man had skooched his chair around so there was way of getting away.
"Last night," he went on, "I was working late, running a program on bridge design. Few people are in Perkins after eleven. Even the janitors have gone home by that hour, so I brought my dog to keep me company."
"I didn't know you could bring pets in the building," the student said.
"It's amazing what you can do when the dean's not around. You're interrupting me."
The old man paused to arrange his thoughts. "I was working in the computer lab—third floor. You know the one?"
The student shook his head.
"Took a solid hour to set up the problem, to type in all the codes. Finally, I turned the problem over to the computer.
"My dog—he's a black Lab, you know. I call him Smoky. Smoky put his head on my lap, and I rubbed his ears while the computer worked away at the problem. It had been running a couple minutes when the door opened and then closed—the door behind me. Smoky growled.
"'Come on now,' I said to Smoky, 'it's just probably Denver. You know Denver. You saw him earlier.' But Old Smoke continued to growl—low and defensive. I ignored it because at that moment the solution came up on the screen. And I tell you, the numbers were fantastic.
"I called over my shoulder, 'Den, why are you still here?' Denver Catron—he's another graduate student. We'd worked together earlier in the evening. I thought he had gone home.
"Den didn't answer.
"Smoke continued to growl, so I turned around. But nobody was there. 'Who the heck is playing tricks at this time of night?' I wondered.
"Then I heard footsteps—moving away, down the hall. And then I heard something else, like something being dragged.
"'Company,' I said to Smoke, 'let's check 'em out.'
"I pushed my chair back, and the two of us went to the lab door. Just as I turned the knob, I heard the stairwell door swing open at the far end of the hall. Smoky and I stepped out, and we heard a shhh-thump, shhh-thump, shhh-thump on the stairs, going down.
"'Hey, wait!' I called out, but no one answered. Just the rhythmic shhh-thump, shhh-thump, shhh-thump going down toward the second floor.
"'Come on, Smoke!' I shouted. And the two of us broke into a run. We slid at the end of the hall to make the turn to the stairwell. Below, I heard the second-floor stairwell door open, and now there were feet running down the hall below us, in the opposite direction, away from Smoky and me. I took the steps four at a time and leaped the railing to the second-floor landing.
"At the far end of the hall, I heard a key rattling in a door lock. Someone threw a door open, and, as Smoky and I burst into the hall, I heard something being flung through the air and glass shattering.
"Ahead I saw the door to Doctor Epson's office open. Smoky and I raced for it. 'Doctor Epson, is that you? You all right?'
"We were twenty feet from his office, ten, then five. Smoky and I burst in.
"It was black as a villain's heart in there. I fumbled for the light switch and found one on the wall, next to the doorjamb. I slammed the switch up, and light flooded the room—an empty room. There was no one there.
"Something crunched under my shoe, friend, as I stepped toward the desk. I looked down. The floor was littered with all kinds of junk and papers. Everything that had been on Doctor Epson's desk and in his glassfront bookcase was on the floor. Looked like a hurricane had gone through.
"I leaned back against the wall, my chest heaving as my lungs sucked for air. Finally, finally, I gasped out, 'If anyone's behind the desk, gawddammit, show yourself. You can't get out.'
"All I heard was me breathing and Smoky panting. I said to Smoke, 'Come on. If he won't come out, we'll have to go back there and get him.'
"We picked our way through the debris of books and old test papers, and I leaned over the desk as Smoky came around the side. No one there, just more books on the floor, some thumb drives and—who threw the rough draft of my dissertation around the office? Pages and charts from my third chapter were everywhere.
"I reached down, friend, to salvage the pages. A medallion winked up at me through the mess, one that Doctor Epson had received last year for being the advisor to the region's top student civil engineering chapter.
"When I retrieved the medallion, I heard something above me, whispering through the air. I twisted around. A black plastic trash bag glided left, then right—seesawing like a falling leaf down through the air. 'What the—'
"A bell dinged in the hallway. Smoky spun around—the elevator's bell, signaling that the elevator had arrived on our floor. Shhhhhh-shump! The door opened and closed. I heard the motor whir. So I grabbed the medallion, and we ran out of the office, to the elevator. I saw the light flash on behind the number three.
"'Come on, Smoke,' I said, 'let's take the stairs!'
"We ran down a side hallway, and I flung open the stairwell door. Smoky and I took the steps three at a time. I stopped him at the top landing. 'Quiet. Listen,' I whispered.
"Nothing. Nothing but graveyard silence.
"Friend, I got down on my hands and knees, and I pushed open the stairwell door. Smoke and I, we started through the doorway, but something caught at my pant leg. I yanked, yanked hard and something ripped, and my leg came free. I reached back. I felt a tear in my trouser leg. My knee stuck through it.
"I peered at Smoky. Then the two of us crept down the side hallway. When we got near the corner, I heard a low growling beside me. I turned, and the hair on the back of Smoky's neck bristled. He stood there, stiff legged.
"Slowly, cautiously, friend, ever so cautiously, I leaned out 'til I could see around the corner. And there was nothing there. The hall was empty.
"'It's okay. We're alone,' I said to no one in particular.
"Only when I stood up did I realize, friend, that something was wrong. I glanced back around the corner. The computer lab where I had been working was dark, but I hadn't turned the light out, I know I hadn't. I edged around the corner, and a light snapped on in the lab.
"I knelt in front of Smoky and pulled his face to mine. 'Someone's playing one hellaciously elaborate game with us, Smoke,' I said. 'Let's go see who the bastard is.'
"The clicking of keys on a computer keyboard came from the room. Whoever it was, I knew he was one fast typist, and that ruled out Den. Well, we strolled down to the door like we owned the building, and again that low growl welled up beside me. I glanced down at Smoke. The hair on his neck and the full length of his back stood on end. 'Cut that out,' I said. 'It's just another student in there.'
"I opened the door and called out, 'Hey, fella, who're you to be working so late?' But whoever it was didn't answer. He just kept typing.
"'Hey, didn't you hear me?' I asked as I walked down the aisle toward the computer where someone sat hammering away at the keyboard. But still he didn't answer. I thought, 'This guy's really into whatever he's working on.'
"When I came up behind him, I put my hand on his shoulder and shook him. I leaned down. 'You supposed to be here this late?' I asked.
"The man swung around. He glared at me, his eyes a fiery red, and I felt Epson's medallion turn white hot in my hand. I leaped back. I dropped the medallion. When it hit the carpet, it burned a hole right through it. I glanced up at the computer, and whoever had been there was gone. But a message blinked on the screen, friend, a message blinked on the screen.
"I forced myself into the chair, and I read the screen. 'I rule the night at Perkins Hall,' it said. 'Not you.'
"I learned in close, as if trying to see behind the electric words. But all I saw in the screen was my reflection, an image that at that moment fascinated me. I became lost in it.
"Then, friend, as if someone had rammed an icicle into my gut, I sucked in wind. 'Smoke! My hair. It's white!' I raked the fingers of both hands back through my hair, unwilling to believe it. 'Smoke, my hair's always been as black as yours. Look.'
"You see buddy, I'm only twenty-six.
"I turned to Smoky, and he was white as an Alaskan winter."
The tension washed from the ancient's body. He slumped in his chair.
During the telling of the story, other students, by twos and threes and some alone, had drifted out of the lunchroom. The place emptied, except for Ray at the sink, washing dishes, impervious to his last guests.
Silent seconds slipped away from eternity's mantle clock.
The student arched an eyebrow. "Old man, are you pulling my leg?"
"Ray," the old man said, calling to the counterman, "would you let my dog in? Smoky, he's just outside the door."
The counterman turned from the sink as he wiped his hands on his apron. "If you promise to keep him out of my kitchen. The health inspector would raise hell if he knew I let a dog in here."
He went to the front door and pushed it open. "Come on, old Touser. Your master wants to see you."
A white dog shambled in. It came over to the old man and sat beside him. The dog laid its head in the old man's lap.
"This doesn't prove anything," the student said. "That dog's an albino. I've seen albinos."
Anger flashed across the old man's face. "Then look at this."
He held up the palm of his right hand. There in the center, a reddish black mark—the size of a dime—seared into the flesh. "Epson's medallion did that."
"Oh come on—"
"Give me your hand!"
The student couldn't stop himself. He extended his hand.
The old man pushed the dog aside. He stood up, grabbed the student by the wrist, and yanked him from his chair. He slapped something into the open hand. "Here! Epson's medallion."
He curled the student's fingers closed over the medallion, and the student felt it grow white hot.
He screamed.
He threw the medallion down and watched it scorch the lunchroom's linoleum.
© Jerry Peterson.
