No places come without their ghosts. Lilly House, where the Artful Dodge office is stationed, is no exception, whether the ghosts are literal or metaphorical. This is most noticeable in the attic, a heavily cobwebbed space complete with crumbling walls and peeling carpets, the thick air parting like a dusty curtain as you make your way through. Something about the silent rooms void of furniture and the cracked-open doors makes you feel as though you are being watched. Instead of clomping through a storeroom, you’re invading a little girl’s playroom or an old man’s study. Clumps of wires bulge from the walls like bundles of malfunctioning nerves. The attic is alive with stillness, ringing with unheard voices.
Yesterday afternoon, I noticed that the door to the attic was ajar, and I figured whoever had opened it would come close it. This morning, the door was still open, so I grabbed the key from the desk and went up to close it. It can only be opened or closed by someone with a key, unless someone uses the lock from the inside. Upon reaching the attic, I cautiously climbed the first few stairs, curious to see if anything had changed since the last time I was up there. Indeed, all the doors that had been open before were more than halfway closed, the rooms and their contents (occupants?) hidden from view. Not being the daring type, I scurried back down the stairs and locked the door. Why would someone go into the attic to do something, close all three open doors for no reason, and leave the attic door unlocked? For now, it remains a mystery, and I secretly hope that it always will. Logical explanations often have ways of ruining what appears to be strange and beautiful. There’s nothing wrong with believing in ghosts.
—Holly Engel, Assistant Editor