The Phantom of 916

Hear my pretty voice!

Finally, my senior year arrives. It should be freaking awesome, right? After splitting with my former roommates, I thought that I could stomach living with a random person in a 2 bedroom apartment for less than a year. I hear you. It takes a brave person. I expect a medal or at least a cookie for my bravery. I like oatmeal raisin best. Anyway, I sign a 10 month lease at the complex since my triumphant graduation approaches in May. (Of course later you’ll understand that I signed this binding contract in the blood that leaked from my ears each morning at approximately 6:45 a.m. But this is another story. You should read everything in this entire book before you skip there—and I mean every freakin’ word.)

Around the beginning of August I begin to psych myself up for the move. Now, I’d like to think that I’m pretty flexible. Social slut, ghetto-curious/delusional—I can handle that. Religious is the only thing that worried me a bit. I’m a little on the ignorant side when it comes to the baby Jesus. Actually that is an understatement; I was the awkward child that sat in the corner with the mitre-shaped dunce cap on the one summer I attended bible school. Still, as long as I’m not stuck with verse-a-day wall paper and all my furniture pointed toward a 6-foot crucifix, I’ll deal. As I entered my brand new apartment, arms full of posters and underwear, I was struck by lightning. I stood in the shadow of a golden plaque adorned with the Ten Commandments. Goddammit.

There’s no sign of my new roommate, and I continue to move my stuff in to my pre-furnished abode. I grab the stud finder so I can position my flaming Guitar Hero guitars around the commanding “Say Your Prayers” decorative wall piece. I bring in the comfy papasan chair in which I like to contemplate the presence of the Lord—oh, who I am I kidding—sit and play Lego Star Wars with spirit in hand. Figuring my roommate and I could collaborate on the living room set-up, I start working on my room. Time ticks to 2 a.m. and still no sign of my roomie, I fall exhaustedly on my floor for slumber. The next day I wake up in a pool of drool on my carpet and still no sign of this new person. The week following was a blur of moving in, working, and sleeping; a haze of exhaustion settled and clouded rational thinking. Finally, I saw movement outside the curtains of clothes I was throwing in my closet. This figure floated rapidly to the door opposite mine and silently entered this room. From that day on, the only action from that room came in the form of an incandescent light that appeared only occasionally between the hours of 8 a.m. and 10 p.m. Monday through Thursday. However, further haunting ensued outside of this room.

Some days a glow from the kitchen lights would find its way under my door. This light was rare, however, as the number of Sonic cups and White Castle wrappers outnumbered the occurrences of this kitchen light. Sometimes the glow would be accompanied by voices, which now that I reflect, sounded strikingly similar to Oprah and Dr. Phil. (Might I add that if Oprah was ever in my apartment that lady did not leave any of her favorite things.) Other than these sounds and the occasional door slam, this phantom remained quiet.

It seems that she is not all mind games though. (I deduced that the phantom is female due to the inordinate amount of purple and faux flower arrangements.) Sometimes this ghoul kept me in check. I have this memory problem in which I fail to remember to take my laundry out of the dryer for days. Now, either this phantom takes them out, or I have one hell of a gift. Even my dirty dishes magically fly out of the dishwasher and onto the counter. Oh, even better, when it is dark a little night light shines to guide my path through a drunken stupor to my bed. What a magnificent occurrence, right? With the spiritual wall decorations and strange hauntings in my apartment I begin to consider a connection. I didn’t come up with anything, sorry. I think it was just a sick joke from the apartment complex Nazis because I’m pretty sure that if I were living with some sort of angel she could at least throw a miracle my way. Just a little one—maybe grant me a singing voice like KT Tunstall or the ability to fly.

Then one night I had a few of my girls over for a night of softball practice—okay, drinking. It was just before 10 p.m. and that faint glow shone under the door. Naturally, curiosity killed my friends, and they all wanted to know what was on the other side of the door. “I don’t know. Some ghoul,” is my response. Apparently that did not suffice so I go on to explain the supernatural events of days past, including the appearance of the figure I saw in my haze of exhaustion. “Can we knock on the door so we can talk to her?” Got a Ouiji board and some candles on hand? I feel a séance coming on…