Tales from Beyond Frick Park I: The Haunting of Gates-Hillman
No living creature can exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even lanternflies and cockroaches are supposed, by some, to dream. Gates Hillman, not sane, stood against the canyon, holding insanity within its glass-and-zinc ribcage; it had stood so for twenty years and might stand for twenty more, assuming FMS could keep the HVAC operating.
Dr. Montague had set up camp for the duration of finals week, intending to study the effects of prolonged wakefulness on undergraduate students “in the wild,” a phrase he used with a straight face, as if anything at Carnegie Mellon could plausibly be described as wild. He had secured IRB approval after describing his experiment as “basically just observing what already happens.” The board, themselves exhausted, approved it immediately.
He invited several candidates, carefully selected for their workload, calculated using a formula involving the FCE of their classes, caffeine consumption, and Piazza post frequency. Only two accepted. Eleanor Vance, a first-year Computer Science student who hadn’t slept properly since July and resented those who had, arrived clutching the $800 iPad she used to take notes while lamenting how she’d be unemployed and broke after graduating. Theodora, an HCI major who claimed to function best at night, arrived shortly thereafter.
Small talk was made and, partway through, the custodians, the Dudleys, happened to walk by and introduce themselves. They explained their work precisely: they cleaned during the day. They did not remain after midnight. They could not be located after midnight. They would not acknowledge anything that happened after midnight, including but not limited to strange noises, rearranged furniture, or the continued existence of undergraduates.
At first, the sleeplessness was companionable. Whiteboards filled and snacks vanished. Someone discovered the vending machine on the third floor dispensed Celsius reliably if cards were swiped at exactly the right angle. All was as it should be.
Then the nights grew louder.
Footsteps echoed where no one walked. Elevators arrived empty, chiming insistently. Writing appeared on whiteboards that Eleanor did not remember being written: WHO IS AWAKE? And, later, HELP ME.
Eleanor could hear the building breathe, as the steam tunnels thrummed softly keeping her warm. Dr. Montague took notes enthusiastically, occasionally whispering about how intriguing everything was.
By the fifth night, the whiteboards were full of equations no one recognized but everyone agreed were “probably linear algebra.” The vending machine stopped responding entirely. It was clear that Gates Hillman wanted Eleanor. The footsteps followed her with the persistence of a Red Bull representative during Carnival. The writing returned in a hand uncomfortably similar to her own: COME HOME. Theodora joked about it. Dr. Montague took notes. Eleanor, poor Eleanor, could do nothing but shake and tremble.
The next and final night passed uneventfully, at least for Eleanor. Theodora, however, saw the Dudleys cleaning and rearranging the furniture back to its original positions. When she went to sit in a chair, however, there was nothing there. She faulted Eleanor for this, though was unable to fathom what exactly she had done. Montague decided Eleanor had to leave. She resisted, quietly. Gates Hillman felt warm now. Familiar, like she had always been waiting for it, and it for her. They packed her bag anyway and walked her outside at dawn.
Eleanor smiled, walked down the Pausch Bridge and did not return. Afterwards, Gates Hillman was finally quiet. The whiteboard was wiped. The vending machines occasionally worked. Dr. Montague published inconclusive results and blamed his small sample size. Finals ended. No one mentioned Eleanor Vance.
Sometimes, though, a whiteboard could be found bearing a single question: WHO IS AWAKE?