The heavy, unpainted metal door grated and squealed when I pried it open, as if ages had passed since it's last use. Unmarked, set back in shadows, and facing the alley it was the only one that corresponded with the address on the document I'd received. Inside, I made my way along a winding hallway, lit by a single flickering bulb. The floor was broken concrete floor and red paint covered the walls. Finding at the end, a reception room where a life size animatronic Barbie Doll smiled at me over the counter, my decision to personally resolve the damn discrepancies in my application wavered.
A cheery voice issued from the doll. "Please state the reason for your visit, and your concern will be addressed in the order it was received."
I glanced around the otherwise empty room. "Isn't there a real person here I can talk to?"
There was a mechanical hum and click as the Doll's head tilted and the eyelids opened and closed. "This office has employed forty-two processing agents for over a century. Your application will be processed in two to four weeks. Thank you for your patience."
"That's great...Uh...can I talk to a processing agent?" I asked, noting a shadowy movement through the translucent glass of the door behind the doll.
"Your query does not meet requirements. You may submit questions with a Q-ninety form, which can be obtained online." It blinked again.
I'd come to clear things up not argue with a machine. Sizing up the animatronic, I decided: if it could move from where it stood, it wouldn't move fast. A quick jump and lunge later, I stood staring at the bizarre sight behind the door. Papers, applications, floated from one empty desk to another. Stamps and pens at each desk moved in rhythm.
Before I could fully comprehend the ghostly scene, the animatronic caught hold of me and hauled me out of the building. It blinked at me from the doorway and in a deep voice said, "You have violated protocol S-fifteen. Your application has been denied." Then the cheery voice returned. "Have a nice day," it said, just before slamming the door in my face.
Standing there, staring at the old door, I realized my father was right: trying to fund my paranormal research through this agency was a dead end.
