liminalcorp

[liminalcorp]

Phenomenon: Arboretum Fairy Lights

It’s one of the first truly humid summer nights of many to come and the proximity to the lake makes the air so thick you could take a bite out of it like an Acme gun-smoke donut. We’re at the Cowling Arboretum, named for the president that questionably acquired the 800 acres of land for a college campus in a time when education funds were sorely lacking, investigating reports of glowing lights on the water. I say investigate in the loosest sense of the word. Wandering around the arb at dusk, smoking and walking down well-worn muddy trails, elicits a specific high-school nostalgia that makes it difficult not to get caught up in the fantasy. Frogs are chirping, the air smells green, and mosquitoes are eating me alive. 

Referred to with epochal affection as The Arb by locals, the sprawling collection of flora and fauna is tended to, generally, by the more bohemian students of the already fairly free-thinking Carleton college. Kay Diaz is one of these caretakers and a casual acquaintance of my long time friend and co-investigator, Liam. She brought the phenomenon of the lights to his attention, by his own admittance prompted by his enthusing about a lightweight increase in online presence since Marty began to involve us in their pursuit of the supernatural, and he brought it to ours.

So we found ourselves treading familiar ground, enjoying the scenery as much as we were having to fend off an endless onslaught of mosquitoes. They’re considered the state bird second to the Loon for good reason, earning their place by haunting every summer with such vicious dedication that should they up and vanish overnight, we would miss complaining about them. Liam insists that the poisonous clouds Marty sprays in their wake are totally unnecessary with the essential oil blend he personally mixed. Marty grimaces and continues reinforcing their mobile brume of pesticide. I had dabbed a little of the oil behind my ears, and while pleasantly lemony, I doubted its effectiveness. 

In truth, I didn’t hold out much hope in finding any genuine examples of wisps. Historically, the tiny flame-wielding sprites of the marshes reported by 18th century travelers have ended up being luminescent gasses from rotting plants. In the Arb, there’s plenty of plants ripe for decomposition by the muddy banks of the lake. But even a non-paranormal source of little blue flames on the water promises some sort of magic, and I wasn’t going to turn down a walk in the woods. 

It took until sundown for the lights to appear. Marty was the first to spot them, pointing to flickering, bright points drifting hypnotically in the gentle eddies. We followed the trajectory of the lights, and with Marty held at a precarious angle gripping my wrist to avoid tipping over off the muddy bank and into the potently vegetal sludge of the lake, we discovered a scattering of half burned out tea-lights, and paper plates. 

Knocking the muck off their heels, Marty wondered out loud what the purpose of the lights were and suggested we visit their place of origin across the lake. Their tone was begrudging of more assault by mosquito, but dedicated to their curiosity. Lighting another cigarette I lagged a little behind my friends, roommates and cohorts. The moon hung as a slim fingernail in the sky, cicadas buzzing in the heavy damp air. It was a nice night to get out. I could see myself sending candles across the lake just to watch them bob and weave, an excuse to enjoy the start of the few months of summer we get. 

It was about twenty minutes of hugging the edge of the lake before we spotted another flickering light. It didn’t drift in the water like its sisters and made its home on a stone roughly etched with the words “SAMSON - YOU WERE A GOOD BOY”, a little mound of dirt stretched out before it like a shadow. An offering of a pink toy mouse sat beside the candle, its edges frayed and well loved.

The three of us fell quiet before the tiny grave. It didn’t feel right to try and say anything at the shrine of a cat unknown to us, but it deserved the respect and reverie of silence. Marty was the first to break the stillness, wandering off the path to come back with dirty nails and a flowering weed, setting it gently by the headstone. We paid our respects to Samson and left his candle burning in the Arb.

L.K

PHENOMENON STATUS: DEBUNKED

#supernatural #paranormal #faeries #will-o-wisp #phenomenon reports #entities

[liminalcorp]

Phenomenon: Enchanted Wine

I would like to start by thanking whoever sent us the handle of wine dating back to 1781. No name or address was disclosed, so I’m hoping whoever sent us such an incredible piece of history is reading this. Even if it wasn’t some kind of enchanted item, the date on the bottle alone is staggering. All the wines I looked up floating at a similar date are literally hundreds of thousands of dollars, which is. Obscene. I can’t imagine how it came into your possession, or why you wanted to pass it on to a couple of clowns like us. Thank you.

Unfortunately, we weren’t able to test whether or not the wine was a bona-fide enchanted artifact. When we found the note and read that the handle would never run out so long as nobody looked down the neck, Liam uncorked the top to pour a glass and peered into it. He says he’s sorry, and really can’t apologize enough.

-L.K

PHENOMENON STATUS: UNRESOLVED

#paranormal #supernatural #fantasy #mythology #phenomenon reports #items #Lee Kelly