When the lights go down in Firestone...
Alara stumbled into the darkened hallway, groping her way through the labyrinth of ominous shelves that surrounded her. “Shit, shit,” she muttered as she continued to feel her way around for a light switch. She couldn’t believe that she had studied so long that she’d lost track of time and, in a sleep deprived haze, had not noticed when Firestone closed for the night. Neglecting her eco-friendly concerns, she really wished they hadn’t turned off the lights. It didn’t help matters that she was in the basement and had no sense of which direction the elevator was in. Trapped in the suffocating musk of books between the shelves, she couldn’t control the panicky reminder of something sinister.
She tried not to think about it, but her mind kept wandering to the rumors. She fiercely maintained that they weren’t true, but every small sound she heard made her think of Jonathan Riley. The word on the street (probably a bunch of drunken college kids making up a funny story) was that he’d been a student at Princeton nearly a century ago and he’d died in a tragic accident when one of the huge shelves at Firestone had fallen on him. He was one of the brightest students Princeton had ever had, and people said that because he blamed the University’s negligence for his death, his ghost still wandered around Firestone late at night. He allegedly wanted to get his vengeance by murdering someone the way he died, to make sure he wasn’t forgotten. During his time, Jonathan Riley had been a charming and athletic student, and his “ghost” had been described as a blonde, attractive, regular-looking guy.
That didn’t seem too menacing; it could be a lot worse than some cute, blonde guy, Alara reasoned. But all logic was abandoned in a second. The air was still, but she thought she heard hearing rustling and ... were those footsteps? She froze and listened to slow footsteps that resembled her earlier movement. As her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, she made out a tall figure moving towards her. Nonsensical thoughts flooded her mind. Was this a monster who was going to lift a shelf off the ground with inhuman strength and crush her? If ghosts were made of air, could he even do anything to her? He had a creepy shuffle, his figure shifting awkwardly with every move. Who was he? She must’ve said this out loud because she heard, “Hi, I’m Dan. I’m a grad student. I work here; who are you?”
Alara let out the breath she’d been holding. He sounded normal, or, at the very least, human. “I’m Alara,” she said after her heart had returned to a more normal pace. Through the dim light, he appeared to be a brunette, at which point she immediately breathed out all of her anxiety.
“I’m guessing you got locked in? No problem; it happens all the time. Let me show you out,” he said politely. She nodded gratefully, and he started walking her down the corridor towards the light switch. As he reached to flick them on, Alara froze with the buzz of fluorescent lights, her eyes tracking upwards from his cynical smile to a head of golden blonde hair.
-Sejal Pachisia
Love bites: A story of fatal attraction
I don’t usually find it easy to hook up with girls on the Street. I resolved to avoid anything resembling a dance floor after multiple teachers at an eighth grade dance tried to hold down my tongue after they were convinced I was having a seizure. Since the dance floor is the best place to locate an easy hook-up, it has been difficult for me. Still, I feel I have better luck in the vicinity of drunk girls than alone in my dorm.
Earlier tonight, I made my way to Tower with my roommate Bruce. It was 11:46 p.m. and it was actually full. (Weird, I know.) We elbowed our way to the tap through a crowd of people more inanimate than usual. As we made our way back, I tried to defend the merits of Chandler’s “The Big Sleep” (ENG 220) to Bruce. I had skipped over pages 53-108, but I assumed if I hadn’t, the plot would have made sense. In any case, I was actually trying to figure out my chances of sleeping with Claire (former hallmate from Clapp, second floor). She was in the corner near the tap, a random girl almost nibbling her ear as she whispered into it. I caught her eye, and she smiled hungrily. Hope rose within me, and for a moment all the intellectual bullshit stopped spewing from my mouth. I chugged my beer and told Bruce I needed another. I took a less direct line to the tap, a course that veered in the direction of Claire. As I got closer to her, I realized she looked yellower than normal. Failed spray tan? I approached her and her friend and was about to introduce myself when the oddest thing happened. Claire grabbed the collar of my red button-down shirt, pulled me to her and started sticking her tongue down my throat. Success!
I was so lucky. Such things never happen in the taproom at the early hour of midnight. Also, I’d known her for two years now, and we’d never been anything but friends. She did seem a little catatonic, though. Thus, I did the gentlemanly thing — I brought her to my dorm room.
Once we were there, things heated up a bit. The tongue-sticking turned more violent. Her teeth came out. She was biting my neck, my ear, even drawing a little blood from my bottom lip. It was hot. I took off my shirt and she went for my stomach, licking and biting all the skin in reach. At one point, though, she actually bit in hard enough that she ended up with some of my flesh in her mouth. Now, I’ve had some sexual experiences before, so I know things like this happen when girls get carried away, but usually they freak out that they’re taking it too far and stop. She just licked up the blood pouring down her lips and starting chewing on my stomach flesh, savoring it like pumpkin pie. And that was even sexier. It wasn’t until she tried to use my “A History of Russia” textbook to crack open my skull that I decided she was probably a zombie, which, frankly, I thought was totally fine. As long as we used protection, what harm could come from zombie-sex?
-Lolita De Palma
A more realistic Princeton horror story
@PrincetonStudent’s Twitter Account 10/27
4:03 p.m.: studying in Frist — someone come visit me!
4:53 p.m.: dear freshman piano player: stop playing vanessa carlton or i will scream
5:01 p.m.: need coffee
5:07 p.m.: crap — coffee spill. Out damned spot!
5:15 p.m.: heading to Firestone #sensorydeprivation
5:25 p.m.: top floor of Firestone, considering throwing myself off
6:02 p.m.: down to the only place no tour groups go: C level
6:33 p.m.: to study or not to study in a random open carrel?
6:50 p.m.: #thatawkwardmoment when you’re sitting in someone’s carrel when they walk in
8:14 p.m.: ten pages done #winning
8:39 p.m.: thank god it’s so easy to find a specific book in Firestone, because i’m really excited about having to look for one
8:55 p.m.: not sure where i am, but it smells like moldy paper and academia
9:09 p.m.: why don’t they ever turn on the lights down here?
9:34 p.m.: seriously worried, someone come find me?
9:46 p.m.: Praise Woodrow Wilson! made it back to my carrel
9:49 p.m.: crap — overenthusiastically shut the door, and it’s not opening
10:11 p.m.: still not opening.
10:23 p.m.: can’t txt anyone — thank god Firestone basement has such great cell phone service, in addition to organization!
10:38 p.m.: just going to try and concentrate on my paper — some1 will come by
10:52 p.m.: getting stuffy in here, kinda hard to breathe
11:24 p.m.: five pages left! #winningagain
12:01 a.m.: why did the light in here just go off?
12:02 a.m.: and all the lights outside are off.
12:05 a.m.: #justrealized i haven’t seen anyone in the past 5 hours
12:12 a.m.: why won’t this door open??? what kind of door locks from the inside? #reallysmart, Princeton
12:23 a.m.: i can’t hear anything in here
12:24 a.m.: i wonder if anyone can hear me? to shout or not to shout from inside the carrel?
12:47 a.m.: come to Firestone basement if you want to hear a crazy person screaming their head off
12:49 a.m.: but seriously, please come and find me
12:54 a.m.: how is it that i have 147 twitter followers, and not one of you has come to get me yet???
1:09 a.m.: this must be a joke
1:14 a.m.: someone’s just trying to keep me from turning in my paper and throwing off the grade curve, that’s it
1:33 a.m.: exhausted — to sleep, or not to sleep?
1:45 a.m.: but if i fall asleep, how will anyone see me?
4:40 p.m. (10/28): just woke up, and i’m not in my dorm…?
4:43 p.m.: oh crap.
5:01 p.m.: paper finished and emailed! after 17 minutes of frantic writing #nightmare
5:03 p.m.: how do i get out of here?
-Samantha Kaseta
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