Warning: the following is semi-educational and may cause sudden overwhelming sensations of hypocrisy.
It’s a chilly autumn’s eve. The leaves crackle and crunch underfoot as you stumble your way down Middle Path after a late-night essay panic-write comparing Frankenstein to Franz Kafka in the crypt of the library. Pale moonlight filters through the trees, casting strange shadows that flicker in your path and dance off the boughs of the trees. What was that? You spy a flash of motion out of the corner of your eye, right at the edge of the woods. Probably just a raccoon. A demon goblin raccoon. It’s almost Halloween, and you’ve got evil on the brain.
Suddenly, off in the distance you hear an ethereal sound, like a satanic pennywhistle. Another joins the chorus, and then another. It’s like a band of demon children tormenting everything with ears with their fiendish third grade recorders. The band swells, like it’s creeping closer, closer, closer. You break into a gallop and high-tail it into the dorm building and up the stairs to your room, slamming the door behind you. The thought flickers through your mind as you collapse panting on your bed: could there be coyotes at Kenyon?