Tragedy struck the SLU campus this week as a body was found in one of the 3rd floor study carrels of the Arts Annex. C. McConnell, who identified herself through seance, was summoned before me at precisely 4:32 a.m. as the silver of the full moon hanging above campus lit up her silvery form. The room was terribly dark and crowded, stuffed with spare mattresses and forgotten flannel underwear. There was a scent about it, and while it was not particularly unpleasant, it was not particularly pleasant either.
The spirit of McConnell, who could only point and tilt her head ominously, gave no clues as to how to solve her murder. This came as a great disappointment to me as I had come there specifically for that reason.
This specter levitated off of the ground, eyeing me dangerously as I vocalized my confusion.
“Who has done this?” I shouted. The dreary room ate my words instantly.
She pointed to the blank wall, tilting her head to the right. There was a flicker in her form, a glitch much like the one you would see on a television screen. This stutter came along with a new wave of coldness that reached my bones.
“Where is the murder weapon?” I shouted again.
Once more, she pointed at the same spot. She did however, decide to tilt her head in the other direction. I was quick to write this down, though I did not, and still as of writing this, do not know what these tiltings meant.
For the moment, I was out of questions. I had only gotten a few pages into the first Sherlock Holmes book I could get my hands on, I didn’t know what type of question should come next. I decided that honesty was a good policy to follow. I had also heard that the dead can hear thoughts as clear as words and didn’t want to seem dishonest.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I proclaimed in a most honest and noble manner.
It was at that moment the ghost of McConnell decided to become vengeful.
Her jaw fell open; a terrible click echoed around the claustrophobic space as the lower part fell well below human capability. With her jaw now unhinged, the phantom stumbled forward, the movement making it sway sickly form side to side. A terrible rattling came from her, piercing the quiet room in a mock-rhythm that made my mind beg for silence.
She dragged herself through the air towards me, her misty hand reaching to my throat. Although she was transparent, I had no doubt she had the power to harm me. There was intention in her expression, and a confidence in action that left no room for wonder.
I too would meet my end in this place.
My back hit the wall before I realized I had been backing up, and in a stumbling moment of frantic thoughts my arm lunged upward, knocking against the lightswitch.
In a moment, sickly yellow light flooded the room. I closed my eyes, partially to block out the blinding light, but also so that I would not have to look at the haunting face before me. I was frozen, waiting for her icy grip to take the life out of me.
A second passed, and then another, and another again.
Cautiously, I opened my eyes. The spirit was gone. Vanished as if I myself had imagined it there. The body was gone from its place under the mattress as well, further supporting this theory.
I know myself to be sound in my grip on reality. I know what I saw that night. I know that a terrible killing took place on the third floor of the Arts Annex and I know the vengeful ghost still walks those halls. I know because I saw it, and I lived to tell the tale.