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Treasure Trove

Into the Puzzle Works

I don’t believe in ghosts, though this was not for a lack of trying - many of my earliest memories involve my brother and I tagging along with my grandmother on similar paranormal field trips. We attended seances; with or without Parker Bros. accessories, with or without automatic writing across large spools of butcher paper, held in musty church basements. We eagerly visited Chicago haunts throughout the city and lugged tape recorders around local cemeteries. My father, ever the storyteller before he had the business cards to prove it, relayed scores of ghost stories and urban legends, with or without campfire accompaniment, with or without long family car rides. My brother, Chris and I, formed the M Factor – a part Ghost Busters, part Monster Squad “organization” that handled the X-Files for the Hardy Boys, conducting our own imaginative investigations into the supernatural and chasing down vampires, werewolves, the occasional gypsy curse and of course, ghosts.

When my relationship with psychology became more intimate, my affair with the supernatural grew tenuous. Even the fact that William James, the founder of American psychology had left Harvard to explore supernatural phenomena, was not enough to rekindle what the paranormal and I once had. Still, ghost stories provided a tingling sensation that few others did. They granted an almost electric pulse that traveled up my spine and spread out at the base of my skull.

Ghost stories smelled of camping: fires, morning dew and earth; they recalled boyhood memories of old dusty books, of racing bikes down serpentine alleys in pursuit of some ethereal mystery, and even the most bizarre and violent ones ironically ushered in a strange sense of familiarity and security.

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"There are two ways of getting home; and one of them is to stay there. The other is to walk around the whole world till we come back to the same place ..."

G. K. Chesterton

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