Colin MacGregor

Transcript of 30-JAN-2003, interview with potential PLE Agent Colin MacGregor continues.

I think learning that my father was dead was more of a shock than my own death. I guess the fact that I was still sort of here helped me deal with the changes, but knowing that the man who'd raised me was gone really shook me.

It didn't take me long, though, to realize that if my ghost was still hanging around, then his might be as well. I hadn't seen him hanging around the hospital and his remains the way I had, but that didn't mean all that much. I'd just established to myself that I wasn't bound to stay near it, so why should he?

With one last hug for my grandfather, I walked out and began making my way back to the house. I was afraid I was going to have to walk the whole way, but I quickly hit upon a new way to get around.

Thus far, I'd been able to pretty much interact with the physical world pretty much however I wanted. I could walk on the floor normally - even as I passed straight through a solid wall. It took a little bit of concentration, but it was fairly easy to slip into a car that was stopped for a traffic light, then sit back and let someone else drive.

I had to take a little bit of a roundabout trek to get home, but by changing cars at stop signs and red lights, I hitchiked a ride to within a couple blocks of the house. Ducking out of the Suburban I'd been riding in at the corner of our subdivision - less than a block from where Ako had nabbed me several months ago, no less - I started walking again.

The door had police tape across it but it's not like that would have stopped me, even if I'd still been alive.

I checked all the rooms downstairs, calling out for Da, but there was no sign of life. Or death, for that matter.

Heading upstairs, I felt a strange sensation. I hate to even think about using the expression, but 'someone walked over my grave' really does sum it up pretty well. It was like a wave of sorrow rolled over me.

I could feel the pull of it coming from Da's bathroom, and I steeled myself for what I expected to find.

There was no sign of my father, either a ghost, or otherwise. Just a bathroom, pretty much as I remembered it.

The only sign that something out of the ordinary had happened was the chalk outline on the floor. I called out a few more times, but for naught, there was no answer.

Things begin to drift a bit in my memory, there. I don't know if the depression of the place got to me, or what, but all I have are flashes of the next few weeks.

Moping around the house, watching my grandfather and some others come and go, boxing up personal items, bringing in the Salvation Army to get the furniture, that sort of thing.

Eventually I drifted down the road a ways to the school. I felt even more lost there, I think.

I admit I did a few things I'm not particularly proud of. Probably what brought me to your attention in the first place, I expect.

One guy I'd always hated anyway made a joke about my death, I remember. I shoved his face into the table a couple times, which made me feel a little better and a little worse, all at the same time. A girl who'd turned me down for a date found herself saying things she probably would rather not have. That sort of thing.

Then, a couple weeks ago, you showed up. (Transcriber's note: subject indicated Kate at this point)

I saw you walking through the hallways, talking to a very worried Rev. Dafoe. I didn't realize at the time that you could see me. I was in the gym, making sure one of the asshole jocks I didn't like kept screwing up when I saw you watching me.

You know the rest. We talked, and you told me that you might be able to help me, if I would leave my former acquaintances alone. And you have.

Thank you for that. Taking me to Ireland to visit the gravesite...to pay respects to my parents, and my own resting place...it strengthened me somehow. Helped me regain some focus, I think.

Now, I don't really know what I'm going to do, but at least I have the drive to look for something more than a bit of petty revenge.

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Last Updated: January 2, 2004 by Blake Sorensen