From: jmnorthw@gte.net.
Newsgroups: alt.folklore.ghost-stories
Date: 12 Jul 1997 07:26:23 GMT
J. Northwood <jmnorthw@gte.net> wrote in article:
Tonight, I want to focus on *whatever* was in Churchill hall, the primary hall for campus offices, financial aid disbursement and foreign language instruction. It was also one of the most haunted buildings on campus.
"gee just the stress from realizing I have to PAY BACK those student loans could explain a haunting > or two..." =)
Couldn't it just . . .
One final note of caution: don't look into any of the mirrors on the second floor out of the corners of your eyes. You may not believe what you see if you do, but it's even worse if you do.
hey, come on, cough it up! what did you see?
There are three incidences I'll relate regarding the mirror issue. One of them may be apocryphal--I don't know the person involved directly, and the information came to me third-hand. One of the situations occurred with a friend of mine, and one happened to me directly. One bit of clarification: Churchill hall is old, and the lavs don't have the "strip mirror" you find now in schools and restaurants. Each sink had its own mirror.
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Supposedly, late June 1990, a freshman (trad.) was doing some cleanup work in the language lab, and, having consumed "mass quantities" at Taco Bell before beginning his work, found himself in need of relief. He went into the restroom closest to that end of Churchill hall, went into a stall, latched the door and proceeded to "strip paint," as he put it. As he was finishing, he noticed what looked like a small line of water from the stall next to him. He stood up, flushed, unlatched the stall door and peeked in the (open and empty) stall next to him to see if he could find where the water was coming from. It looked as though someone had let some ice melt in a puddle on the floor, but there was no other obvious source. He shrugged it off and went to wash his hands and comb his hair, preparatory to returning to the language lab.
While at the sink, he caught sight of motion out of the corner of his eye in the mirror next to him. He turned to look at it, but nothing was there. He completed washing his hands and turned to dry them, and again saw *something* out of the corner of his eye. He spun around again, and saw the door of the stall he had checked--the one with the small puddle-- swinging gently, as though someone had just let go of it.
He went to the door of the stall, yanked it open and saw . . . nothing. No one was there. Just a puddle of water on the floor.
He went back to the sink and combed his hair, peeking out the corner of his eye at the mirror over the sink next to his. Soon he saw the door of the cubicle slowly begin to swing open, and he noticed the puddle on the floor grow a little larger--gleam a little more dully in the light . . . the light that he felt was slowly dwindling. As he watched, he saw a reflection of what he thought was bone in the puddle, just as another *drop* rippled the surface.
*drop*
*drop*
*drop*
By this point he was torn between fascination and terror, and decided he'd wait and see what else happened.
He didn't have to wait very long.
Within about a minute, according to his calculations, the door to the cubicle began swinging a little more wildly, and he began to see flashes of light, and a "swirly" pattern of dust around the edges of the door. Now note: all of this was in complete silence, save for the *drip* of water in the sink, the hissing rush of his breath and the pounding surge of blood in his veins.
Suddenly, the door to the cubicle *crashed* open, he screamed, turned and saw . . .
nothing.
The door to the cubicle was closed. All he saw was a puddle of water. A dark puddle, faintly rusty, that reached from the cubicle, across the tiled floor, and ended almost an inch from his feet.
He ran out of Churchill hall that night, leaving the language lab unattended and unlocked. As far as I know, he never went into the bathrooms on the second floor again.
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A friend of mine and I were in Churchill late one night, about 10pm on a Thursday, if I recall. I know I had an 8am class the next morning, and I was upset that he wanted to "test this mirror thing" that night.
He was a very devout Catholic, and, even though he and I had numerous disagreements on personal responsibility and mythic construction of belief, we were very good friends until his death (unrelated to this incident) by cancer in 1995.
I was in the hallway, with a flashlight (and, under my jacket, two more flashlights and a small bottle of holy water--I figured it couldn't hurt) and a *bad* case of nerves. He smiled, stepped into the bathroom and shut off the light. There's enough light from the windows (if there's a good moon, and it's not too overcast) that it's like mid afternoon on a cloudy day in there at night with the lights off. I heard him go over to the sink and begin rocking back and forth on his heels. I knew he was doing it, because he always did that when he was waiting (impatiently) for something to happen. I kept teasing him about it because of his penchant for wearing squeaky shoes.
What I heard: <squeak> <squeak> <squeak> <rustle> (he opened a candy bar) "Does anybody want some?" (Then he chuckled) <crunch> <squeak> <squeak> <crunch> <squeak> . . . "What th . . . " "What?" "No." "NO. "NNOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
He slammed the door open, and I noticed something streaming from his fist and a thin line of blood on his neck as he grabbed me by the jacket and ran downstairs. The restroom was *pitch black.*
At this point, I was keeping up with him, and we didn't stop until we were in his dorm room with the door locked, the window covered and his crucifix on the table between us.
"Pick it up."
I did, and it was wet.
"What . . . ?" was as far as I got.
"I turned out the light and went to the sink. Yeah, I saw the puddle in the cubicle, and yeah, I saw the door swing. I closed my eyes and prayed, and when I opened them, everything looked normal.
"I took out a Twix bar, ate half, asked 'whatever' was there if it wanted some and left it on the counter. I figured I could look at it and see if something weird was going to happen.
"I noticed it was getting kind of dark, and I was kind of creeped out, so I prayed to the Lord and looked to grab the Twix bar and saw something move out of the corner of my eye. I looked in the mirror, and it looked like the head of Christ on my crucifix was *turning.* I looked in the mirror, and it looked like this tongue-like thing was snaking out of its mouth, and when I felt it touch my neck, I just freaked! That's when I screamed and ran out of there."
The crucifix looked normal, but was undeniably wet. The water, though, was not saline at all, which precluded sweat. His chest, as well, where the crucifix had sat, was wet, and he had a tiny puncture, almost like a pin-prick, where he said the "tongue" of the figure had touched him.
I skipped my class the next morning and went with him while he went to confession, and then we both spoke with his priest about the situation. The priest chalked it up to overactive imaginations and an "excess of high spirits." I only wish.
As far as I know, he never wore that crucifix again.
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I was a sophomore in college, and a number of my friends and I had "investigated" hauntings. I was by no means an expert, but I was also no neophyte, and I was (admittedly) curious as to what would happen should I examine the restroom phenomenon.
I had already had my run-in with the auditorium, so I felt fairly certain that there was *something* going on in the restroom, and I wanted to find out what.
I went into the restroom, flashlight ready, walking stick in my right hand, at about two in the afternoon on a Sunday in March. It was nice and bright (but still chilly outside), and I felt *fairly* comfortable that I could handle just about anything. Ah, the cockiness of youth.
I went to the sink at the farthest end, the one where all of the activity seemed to be, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
I'd almost given up by three in the afternoon, and the light was getting dim, when I noticed the door to the cubicle swinging. By this time, my nerves were an admixture of steel and quavering gelatin, and I called out "Yeah, I know about the door and the puddle. Thanks, but no thanks."
Yes, since then I've learned to keep my mouth shut.
It almost seemed like the lights went out, but I know there was still light outside. All at once, and again, soundlessly, the door to the cubicle burst open and I felt this incredible rush of *evil* pouring out at me. The impression I got was a skeleton wrapped in tattered shrouds of graveclothes, dripping rancid water as it rose to drag me down to its own, private hell.
I screeched, turned with the walking stick up and . . there was nothing there.
I just started shivering and looked down and saw a puddle under my feet.
I hadn't used the sink.
I turned and ran out of the bathroom and back to my dorm room. I was sick for four days. 104 deg. fever, vomiting, chills, shaking--I didn't get out of bed except to go to the bathroom.
Reaction? I don't know. All I'm sure of is that, from that point on, if I was upstairs in Churchill hall, no matter *how* bad I had to go, I held it and walked downstairs to use the restroom -- the one at the opposite end of the building.
jmnorthw@gte.net.
