WORK FROM HOME, DAY 12
I'm not upstairs today. I brought my laptop downstairs and set up shop at the dining room table. No need to trouble myself with dark hallways, doors that may or not open and close on their own, and a disembodied voice telling me there are no good things.
What does that even mean?
Internet search: do poltergeists try to communicate?
Nothing.
Internet search: how to communicate with a poltergeist
I file through the usual suggestions of a Ouija board (um, no), a seance (not gonna happen), and a medium (if she's not from Long Island, I pass). Meditation isn't a good option for me because my attention span is far too short. One article mentions using a digital recorder for EVP.
Internet search: what is EVP?
I wade through stuff about "employee value proposition" and get to what I'm looking for. Apparently it relates to sounds found on electronic recordings that could be interpreted as spirit voices. A few articles provide instruction on how to capture EVP on a recording, but frankly it sounds like too much work. One final option stands out, though.
Use a mirror.
The mirror in the Executive Washroom is where I saw the face. Was it a demon? A ghost? Something from another dimension? Whatever it was, do I want to try and contact it? The answer is no, I don't want to. However, something compels me to follow through. An unseen force that I can feel guiding me urges me to use the mirror technique. A few more trips down the rabbit hole leads to familiar stories and urban legends like "Bloody Mary." My vigorous research leads me to something called The Caputo Effect.
...an experiment by Giovanny Caputo that consist on making a person look into their own face in the mirror and after some time they would see something that isn't their face.
Hell, been there and done that already. According to further research, the intent is to stare at your face in a mirror. Don't say anything. Don't call on anyone. Remain silent. Eventually, something should appear. My stomach knots and the moisture evaporates from inside my mouth. I could spit cotton. I stand, take a few tentative steps toward the doorway in the hopes that my phone will ring or a text message will come in to pull me away from this fool's errand. All I hear is deafening, unkind silence.
I walk into the Executive Washroom, look at my pale face, and wait.