Things that Go Bump in the Squad: A Ghoul’s Guide to Kenyon Horrors
IT’S TIME, MY PRETTIES! My sweet, innocent gremlins. My beloved, gentle cretins. It is time… to GET SPOOKY! Halloween is creeping up on us with soft, crunchy footsteps but the nightmare will continue long past October. We are never safe. We were never safe. We haven’t been safe in years. I know what lurks in these hallowed halls. Do you? Have you been watching? Would you like to see? Once you know, you’ll have a better chance of surviving. But once you know, you can never look away. Behold, my darling demons. Behold… and beware…
The Email Hydra
She lurks in the dark… she hovers there, waiting… her claws tap at the keyboard like spindly fingers on a window latched tight. You thought you checked your emails. You thought you deleted your emails. You thought that four in the morning would be an unreasonable time for people to send you more emails. You thought wrong. Deleting them aggravates her. Archiving them won’t send her away, you silly fool. Cut off one head and 1,432 more of them will grow back… unread… that little red circle above the email app denouncing your fate… please… please, no more… aaAAAHhhhhhh…
The Science Quadagram
We all know that science is the devil’s witchcraft. We know that numbers, hypnotically marching in front of your eyes in infinite streams, have no soul. Have no mercy. We know this. But do you know the secret of the science quadagram? Higley. Hayes. Tomsich. Smather. They stand behind the graveyard, counting… counting… the lab is short on mice. The 666th student of the year steps into the quadagram. The 666th student is never heard from again. Another mouse mysteriously appears in the animal lab facility. She seems different from the others. Mournful. Quiet. The others avoid her. She settles in the corner of her tank, resigned to her monotonous fate.
The Crawfish King of the Kokosing
We swim. We laugh. We splash each other in the pleasant shallows, letting the cool water soothe our aching souls. We’ve never felt the muck rumble beneath our feet. So far, we’ve been lucky. He sleeps soundly. He doesn’t need to be fed for another five hundred years. The crawfish king of the Kokosing, larger than Old Kenyon herself, hibernates in the murky deep. Once his stomach starts to grumble, it feels as if the ground is shaking. As if the earth is splitting apart. With a horrifying shriek, he emerges, demanding a feast fit for a freshwater monarch. We must appease him. We must serve him. Else he will devour us all.
The Owl Creek Sirens
Beautiful, aren’t they? Powerful. Haunting. The Owl Creeks begin to sing, softly at first, then louder, louder… are you listening? Take out your headphones. Let the music carry you. Do you remember last Thursday? Me, neither. The sirens have decreed it so. Let their melodies overtake us. Let them consume us. Let’s become hypnotized together. It’s better this way.
The obelisk is coming. We know not why, or from where. We only know that it faces the sunset. It absorbs the sunset. The sun will reach the tip of the obelisk, shining down with sinister light. All who bask in the glow will become enlightened, for the obelisk knows what Big Brother™ would have you forget. Do not listen to the naysayers. They are silly. The obelisk is here. The obelisk loves you. Just wait. We will be here so, so soon.
An unnamed source entered the DKE lounge at midnight. The party was loud. Raucous. All the boys were there… all of them. Beer had been spilled on the sticky, sticky floor. Amongst the young introverts luxuriating on the couch sat a wizened, wrinkled figure with a solo cup clutched tightly in his weathered right hand. The unnamed source makes eye contact with him curiously. What was he doing there? He was old. We were young. What did he want from us? The old man beckoned slowly. As if an invisible thread were dragging them forth, the unnamed source drifted towards the ancient partygoer. “I’m a DKE,” he croaked, “I went here in ’76… 1876!” He then vanished into thin air, smelling of stale beer and cigarette ash. The unnamed source shook their head and returned to their dorm. “Must’ve been one of the frat ghosts again.”
A coyote, you say? By the Art Barn, you say? You are a fool. So hopeful and naive. The Kenyon Chupacabra laughs at your silly mistake. Soon, he will have you in his clutches. The raccoons are his children. The alley cats his friends. It is too late. He knows who walks the woods at night. He knows. This is your final warning.
Caw… caw, caw, caw! Caw, caw, caw? Caw!!! Caw caw. Caw caw caw, caw caw. Caw. Caw, caw, caw, caw. Caw! Caw caw. Caw caw caw! Caw. Caw…
We hope you enjoyed this. We hope you remember. These are the horrors that haunt the campus. These are your nighttime companions. Run. Run… or they will find you.