Okay. Remember when I said Joren talks backwards in his sleep?

I was wrong.

Wanna know how I know?

I recorded him.

I am aware of how creepy that sounds. But does Sherlock Holmes worry about being creepy when he investigates a dead man's house? Does Sherlock Holmes worry about the creepiness factor of looking through the old love letters of a vanished divorcée? (I just realized I only know the name of one detective.)

Basically, what I'm trying to say is that I'm Sherlock Holmes.

Three nights ago, I decided to do some investigative work. I had a simple plan: open the recording app on my phone, tap the 'record' button whenever Joren started talking. Easy. And yet, no dice. My fingers just aren't fast enough.

Two nights ago, a new plan. I decided to record for the whole night. I got a good twenty-five minutes of material before my phone ran out of memory. No sleep talking.

Last night. Same plan as the first night. But this time, I got it. My prize: eight seconds of incomprehensible sleep talk.

The recording has at least confirmed that backwards-Joren is as inscrutable as forwards-Joren. In either direction, it's definitely not English. It's like... I wish it were easier to describe noises with words. I'll give it a shot.

It's like: wahh oooooahhh, and then, wiiooo, aaooh weeee.

That looks like I'm trying to write ambulance noises. I'm not. If anything, it's like whale noises, if a human could make whale noises. It's like the noises made by demon whales singing through the fiery rivers of hell. Big, and deep, and vast, and echoing, as if it comes from everywhere at once, as if it comes from inside your head. But only when it's backwards.

Yeah, that's the most baffling part. It's not just the words. The tone is different forwards and backwards.

Played forwards, it's the same creepy backwards sleep-mumbling. Reversed, it's demon whales. There are sounds in the backwards version that can not possibly be there. At first, I thought something was wrong with my phone. But, like a good Sherlock Holmes, I played it back on my phone and on two different computers, one of which wasn't even mine. My Mom didn't even ask questions when I explained to her how to reverse an audio recording. She's so supportive.

I've already listened to the recording somewhere in the ballpark of eighty-six times this morning, trying to make sense of it. I rush out to the communal student kitchen for a second opinion. I know Kayla is there, because the hall smells like burning. I get there just in time, and she looks at me sheepishly, poised to open the smoking oven. Her hands are stuffed into charred communal oven mitts that I've personally witnessed catch fire. On Kayla's hands. Three times.

"Alvaro!" She says. "Windows!"

I know the drill, and I'm already moving to throw open the hall windows. She opens the oven door and I brace for smoke. Out pours a cloud so thick it nearly pushes us backwards.

"When did you put those in the oven?" I ask, coughing. "Wednesday?"

"Ugh." Kayla dumps the cookies into the trash. "This was my second try, too."

I see a book laying on the counter beside a bowl of yet-unburnt dough and I know what happened. Kayla has a single minded focus that makes her a fantastic student and a dangerous chef.

"Kayla, you have to take them out before they turn into charcoal," I say, grinning. "God, it smells like that apartment downtown."

"Wow," Kayla says. "That's a mean joke."

I shrug. "All I'm saying is that your cookies could kill people."

"Psh, it's your recipe," she says, pointing at the website pulled up on her laptop, which is covered in flour. "If anything, your instructions aren't foolproof enough."

I'm flattered to know she reads my blog, but at the same time, I'm devastated by the state of my cookies. It's like sending your children to daycare and then finding out someone burned them.

"I was trying to make your bookies for my sorority potluck," she said, scraping ash off the baking tray.

"No, no, no," I reprimand her. "You have to say boo-o-kies!"

She laughs. "Why?"

"Because... ghosts!" I say, pointing at the picture pulled up on her laptop. "Ghost cookies! Boo-oo-kies!"

She tilts her head at the recipe. "Oh, huh, they are. I thought you'd just never seen a book."

"No more making fun of my cookies," I cut in. "I need you to listen to something."

My finger is poised over the 'play' button, ready to spring my findings on her. I press it and shove the phone toward her, and the ghastly noises pour out, tinted by static and a dark, low, grumble that definitely is not there when I play the recording in the forward direction.

"What does it sound like to you?" I say, skin prickling with excitement.

She leans into the phone. "Whale noises."

Nailed it.

She looks at me in puzzlement. "Is it whale noises?"

"It's Joren," I say. "Sleeping."

I swipe to the next recording and press 'play,' and out flows Joren's normal voice in his incomprehensible not-backwards-but-definitely-not-forwards muttering. There's no static, no deep, chilling grumble, just a strange boy talking nonsense and terrifying his roommate.

Kayla crinkles her nose. "Alvaro, that's weird."

"I know!" I say, rewinding the recording and playing it again.

"No, I mean, why are you recording Joren in his sleep?"

"I'm... being a detective," I say, feeling abashed. I pause the phone. This was a mistake. It's weird. I knew it was weird and I did it anyway. "Kayla, how can something sound different forwards and backwards?"

"Because something is wrong with your phone," Kayla says. "And also, something is wrong with you."

Alright, scratch Kayla off my list of possible accomplices. I don't need this negativity in my life. I leave the room and shout down the hallway, "Further research is required!"

"Stop harassing Joren!" She calls back.

"Stop burning my cookies!"