There was a request in TQC to tell a couple of my creepy stories, so here goes.

I have always loved living in dorms. Something about the history, the knowledge that so many people have left an indelible mark, the easy access to alcohol and hookups, is enchanting. My favorite dorm was always St. Charles. The oldest part of the college, it once was the college, entire and complete. The rooms have wooden floors, the walls are plaster, and the halls hold a ghost. Frankly, if a building is almost one hundred years old and is not rumored to be haunted, I am disappointed in locals' ability to create lore. So when I was told that St. Charles was haunted, I was distinctly unimpressed. I moved in with little fanfare, and sat in my room thinking of the stories I'd heard. I've had an interest in the paranormal ever since I left my parent's religion at the age of 13, when I started looking for what I believed. I'd maintained the interest, and had been to many supposedly haunted locations, only to be disappointed by creaky pipes and nothing more than a general feeling of creepiness.

St. Charles, as it would turn out, was something different. It started on a windy night, windy enough that I didn't even think about it at the time. The wind always wuthers and howls around the building, and it's old and creaky. So when my door swung wide open at 2: 15 in the morning, I got up, shut my door, and didn't think much about it. Until it kept happening. 6 to 8 times a month, my door would fall open between the hours of 2:15 and 3:15 in the morning. After the fourth time, I locked my door at night. Every night. A week later, the light crossed my face as the door opened once again. I got up, irritated, and decided the doorknob must be broken, and too weak to keep the door shut. I closed the door, and grabbed the doorknob, leaning away to prove my point. The door stayed shut. I pulled harder on the doorknob. Nothing. Mildly creeped out, I shook my head and said in was nothing, I would ask Mike, the janitor and general handyman, to fix it tomorrow.

When I talked to Mike in the morning, he said that the doorknobs were just replaced that summer, and he was sure there was nothing wrong with my door or the knob, but he would check it out. I watched as he looked at it, and told me there was nothing wrong with my door. I shook my head when he told me to lock it at night, knowing that it would still open. For the rest of the school year, it opened within the same hour a few times a month.

But I learned to live with the weirdness of that. The other things made me genuinely believe I was living in a haunted location. My student ID went missing in November; I went to get another, that was lost in February. This and of itself was not unusual. I am hardly the world's record holder for keeping track of things. The strange part was where I found them when I was moving out. I scurried under my bed to grab some things, and saw something out of the corner of my eye. I flipped on my back, and there they were, lined up perfectly under the bed supports. My IDs. What the...? I thought, wondering why and how they got there. I decided not to think about it too much.

The last thing I can't explain away in that dorm has to do with the attached theater. This summer, while working for conferencing, I was walking around campus around eleven o' clock. Someone had left the lights to the theater on. I quietly cursed the groups we had on campus, and used my code to get inside. I called out for someone, and no one answered. They must have just left the lights on when they left. I went around the theater and turned all the lights off, shut the doors and went back outside. I was outside for two minutes when I turned and looked at the theater. All the lights were back on. I went back in, told the theater that it was past curfew for using the facility, and went around the theater again turning off the lights, looking for any signs of human life, but the only sound was the echo of my own footsteps. I went outside again, looked back, and the lights were on. I had been gone for only a minute. I left and went to bed.

The other place on campus I've had an experience in is St. Albert's. Last summer, I went around to all the computers on campus and took down their identification numbers. It was the middle of the summer, and things were fairly dead in the old nuns' quarters. I went into an office, checking a computer, and heard the door across from me slam. The office belonged to a old priest who taught history, and I thought he was getting all shirty that I was letting myself into offices. I went across the way and knocked on his door.

"Father? I'm supposed to be checking computer numbers. I need into your office." There was no answer. I knocked again. "I really need to do this. Can you please let me into your office?" Nothing. Sick of being ignored, I let myself into his office. No one. Hm. I went and looked for an open window on the floor of the small building, but there were none to be found. I quickly checked the computer number and turned to leave, and just as I stepped out of his office, the door slammed against my heel. I left without haste.

My creepy college stories, ladies and gentlemen.

I posted this as a comment, but decided it applied enough to my life and how I feel on stuff to be put here:

To be honest, I expected to be questioned on the nature of my sexuality from straight people. They gave gay people grief forever, now they're moving on to bi people, transpeople, etc. That doesn't mean I don't hate it, and that it doesn't hurt that just because they don't understand the way I feel, it's automatically made up or wrong. It does. But, I expected it.

What surprised me was, most of the people who gave me grief about my sexuality were homosexual.

It was something I really didn't expect. You know, the 'community' makes such a deal of "Pitch in, bifolk! We're all together in this fight!". If we're all together, why do you tell me to "pick a side", like sexuality is some sort of war? Why do you think I am not worth dating? Why do organizations meant to bring us together talk about "gay and lesbian marriage" instead of "same sex marriage"? Why do you assume I'm either confused or doing it for attention, accusations that have been leveled at gay and lesbian people forever, why would you bring that back on another person?

It upsets me. It still does.

I played trivia with Jake tonight. We were 6 points off from placing at the pub, as a two-person team. The winners were 15 people. I think jake and I are pretty awesome, being so small but doing well. We were the smallest team there and all. But this isn't about that. Not really. Though it happened at trivia, it said something more about humans as a whole. For once, it said something I liked.

I am generally a pessimist when it comes to all things, and the Olympics is no different. I tend to think that it's all a giant dog and pony show, that people forget about almost as soon as it happens. Tonight, in between the 6th and 7th rounds of trivia. Michael Phelps swam the butterfly. The entire pub stopped, eyes on the televisions. The quizmaster was silent, as a cheer began to rise up on the edges of the pub, as Phelps drew closer to the edge of the pool. As he made the turn, the pub practically exploded with cheers. I found myself getting drawn into it, this idea that even though only moments before we had all been competing against each other, now we were all on the same team. Phelps continued to pull ahead, and we with him. We were one. He touched that wall, and all of us let out a roar of applause. People smiled at each other. The energy moved everyone in the room, even as the applause died down. For an instant, I understood the Olympics.

I don't think I can ever be cynical about them again.

The concert was the entire reason for going on this trip. Because clearly, driving 13.5 hours total to see Jonathan Richman wasn't quite enough, so we had to up it to 20 hours and change. I called my sister the day I found out Jonathan was playing in Portland. I had taken her to the show in Salt Lake City, and now she love love loved Jonathan even more than I prayed for. (Okay, that was the first and last terrible Jonathan pun.) So I phoned her up

Randi: Kelsey, Jonathan is playing in Portland! Do you want to go?
Kelsey: Why do you ask such stupid questions? Of course!!

I am a firm believer that all it takes to get one of your friends from lukewarm to love is to take them to one of Jonathan's shows. There's something about him that makes you think that he's playing just for you, and whether you enjoy it or not is the most important thing on his mind. My friend Cathy has always put up with my appreciation of Jonathan, and has come to like him herself. I figured if I could con her into coming along on this trip, she would love him. I knew it would be true.

I stumble across things that make me go "hmmm...". Actually, more accurately, they make me go "WHY GOD WHY DO YOU MOCK ME SO????", but that is socially inappropriate to scream as a receptionist. 

Today, the lucky strike was Purity Balls. These seek to make girls pure by having them promise their hymen to their Daddy. Not boys, of course. Boys will be boys. Even King David was a whore. It's acceptable. But for girls, as young as 4, and an appalling amount of them at the age of 10 and 11. (Are girls even thinking about sex at that age? I wasn't. I was writing a story about a unicorn princess named Jubilee. Don't I wish I was joking.) Now, I realize for most of these girls, this IS the prom of a lifetime. They are mainly homeschooled (Oh look! More insane homeschoolers! Who would have guessed??), and they are all VERY VERY Christian.

Now, I'm very much into the idea of strengthening the bond between father and daughter. God knows I wish I was close to my Dad. Maybe not my Dad in particular, but I do long for a close Father-Daughter type relationship. Years of therapy have made me okay with admitting that. But in what way does having your Papa promise to shield your worth and value (your hymen) strengthen that bond. When I go off into fantasy-fatherland, my dreams do not generally include having a strange mock prom-wedding. It's more along the lines of someone to play Scrabble with, watch movies with, father-daughter picnic, etc. I may be psycho, but I'm not as nuts as these people.

Seriously, they even have purity underwear that says : No Trespassing. My Father is watching.

THE HELL!!?!?!


But on this delightful trip to creepy psuedo-marriage-contract land, I found a delightful blog with some comments that spoke to my inner asshole.

A taste:

For years before attending her own, Rebecca Lynn would have Purity Balls for her little Madame Alexander and American girl dolls. She has every single one of them, except for the wrong kind that is, and she would set them all around the basement playroom and for hours give “their testimony” for them. There would be my precious daughter surrounded by literally hundreds of dolls, saying “I pledge to be a good Christian and with God’s help, my mommy and daddy, and this Purity oath, to never act like those poor unsaved liberal girls do.” Even at 10 she knew that little girls raised by Liberals would grow up to be sluts.

Hang on, I was raised by Conservative Christians, and I grew up to be a Liberal Bisexual Jew!!! Does that mean I get extra slut points for overcoming my birth?

A lady posts about how, sadly, there still might need to be abortions due to rape or fetal anomalies, but nooooo:

Why do you think there is such a thing as rape? Its really when the girl’s lust drives her to sin and then she LIES to get out of it. GOD KNOWS what she did and her punishment is to HAVE that baby, perferablly one of those deformed ones that she can take care off for the rest of her life. That would be a suitable lesson for the other girls to learn.

and so what if the baby hsas “fetal abnormalities that are incompatible with life” ?? you don’t get to decide! ONLY GOD GETS TO DECIDE!

if HE wants to inflict the pain of a stillborn birth on you, for yours sins, say thank you and promise to do better!

I really should be terrified of these people, but I'm too busy laughing my ass off. I know when I say "No" to a guy, I really mean "I have allowed myself to be alone with a man, so I am a Liberal slut and deserve rape! Take me!" But, you know, "No" has so many less syllables.

Naturally, this disintegrates from "Pseudo-marriage to your Dad is awesome!!" to the Hippocratic and liberal murdering:

* I will not use my medical knowledge to violate human rights and civil liberties, even under threat;”

EXCEPT FOR WHEN A HARLOT ASKS ME TO RIP THE LIVING PRE-BORN BABY FROM HER WOMB…..

AMEN…

you mean that oath?

I should be so pissed. I know this isn't parody. But my mind is going "TOO RIDICULOUS TO BE TRUE. LAUGHTER ENGAGING."

 

I've never been a fan of sports, not since I was small. I was uncoordinated, tiny, and had much more of an interest in reading and writing than I ever did in kicking a damn ball down the field. I blame my dislike of sports on how ridiculously competitive they got by the age of 8. My classmates took sports outside of school, winning, even at recess, mattered. I am not such a person, and it began to annoy me. Being the kind of asshole I was at 8, which, to be frank, is not that different from the kind of asshole I am now, I took the attitude of: You can't fire me, I quit. Instead of begging for the other kids to pick me, to want me on their team, I grabbed a book and refused to play the game. Or I went to the swings or the sandbox. I didn't need them if they didn't want me. I was not a popular kid, awkward and bookish. But I was smart. And I had a few friends.  And I did have a temper. Which leads me to my next story.

Kyle was destined to become one of those jockish types that lived based on the fact that they could run with a ball. My 3rd grade teacher, in all of her wisdom, decided that I should learn to get along with the other kids and play sports. So I got thrown into the blackboard jungle, away from the safety of the pirates in my novel. Marooned on the island with me were my friends, Ben and Daniel. Both of whom became hot later in life, along with me. That's another story for a different day, I suppose.

On this particular day, the torture of choice was kickball, delight of awkward kids everywhere. Kyle was pitching, and Daniel was up to kick. Kyle, being one of the jock types, derived no greater pleasure under God than torturing us. He pitched fast and hard, the red ball flying down the blacktop like a comet. Daniel kicked at it with great vigor, and of course, missed entirely. Kyle was delighted, and laughed as hard as he could. He threw it again, and again, Daniel missed. As kids often do, Kyle began to make fun of Daniel. A litany of not-all-that-clever-but-emotionally-shattering-at-the-time insults came. I'm better at taking crap than letting my friends take it.  I have no trouble getting made fun of, because I'd rather not play with them anyhow. But Daniel cared, and so I cared.

 I'd read enough books to know that if you lie down and take that kind of crap, it keeps happening to you over and over again. I'd lived in the world long enough to know that telling an adult gets you nothing but teased OUTSIDE of school. Clearly, violence was the answer. I walked up to the mound, yelling something at Kyle that I'm sure I thought was very witty at the time. Then, as he got into my face, I broke a nerd commandment. I hit the bully. I was tiny, and so am sure that the initial punch didn't hurt, but the shock registered immediately. The world had turned upside down, the peasants were attacking the nobles!!! The 1812 overture ran through my head as I wailed on this kid, and his shock turned to pain, as he punched at the air, and landed a few good smacks. My adrenaline was too much for him, and before I knew it, I was standing victorious over the enemy.

Getting hauled into the Principal's office did nothing to abate my self-satisfaction. As my parents were called in, I defended that I had 'mitgating circumstances'. This is when Mom decided I wasn't allowed to read crime novels anymore. Nothing ended up happening to me, outside of having to write a letter of apology. I wrote that I was sorry he got hurt, because I wasn't sorry that I hit him. Kyle ended up transferring after Christmas break, because nothing hurts your street cred more than getting beat up by a nerd.

Things didn't really change for me. People still made fun of me, and I still just wanted them to leave me the hell alone. But that's not the point of the story. The point is, I did something because I felt I had to do it. Wisdom be damned. And I'm glad I did, because for once, I won.