Staff writer Abi Peters recounts her Carman Horror Story – and no, there’s no mention of an NSOP party.

It was a normal Thursday. Returning from class, I skipped along to the service elevator in Carman where I knew I would be safe from the judgment cast upon me for only heading to the third floor.

As I stepped in the elevator, I sensed something was wrong, I could feel it in my bones. Not paying attention, I stepped out at what I assumed would be floor three, opened my eyes, and realised I was not in my dilapidated, unrenovated, precious Carman floor but rather in the lowest floor of the building.

I took in my surroundings: grey floors, walls and ceilings, flickering light bulbs, cafeteria tables littered with packs of cards. I was afraid but intrigued. I turned around to return to civilisation and saw that the elevator was on its way up to the thirteenth floor. I was alone.

If I was to meet my end down there, I decided to make use of my last moments and explore this brand-new world. I turned a corner and was met with a corridor filled with doors like an apocalyptic John Jay. I briefly wondered if this was, in fact, the apocalypse and I had stumbled upon Columbia’s very own underground bunker.

Curious, willing to accept my fate, I opened one of these doors and was met with a tiny room painted entirely Pantone 292 with the ghost of John Jay himself gnawing at the remainders of a pile of lobster from Surf n Turf. Confused and scared, I ran from the room and tried the next.

Inside were a thousand parrots flapping around furiously. My head was spinning, the parrots were shouting at me in Latin, and I began to fear that I would never be free from this strange world.

I stumbled into the next room, hoping for some solace from my torment, and instead found a gathering of Aardvarks debating plots for a live-action revival of Arthur. What world had I entered?

My heart pounding, the Aardvarks staring at me with their beady eyes, I raced into the next door and found myself in Lerner. Everything seemed normal, I took I sigh of relief.

Then I realised: the ramps were covered on gravy, the ceiling was dripping with gravy, to my horror, I, too, was beginning to disintegrate into gravy.

Half running, half swimming, I returned to the corridor to find my clothes dry and the gravy gone. Defeated, afraid, I sank to the floor. Then, suddenly, in the distance I heard the opening of the service elevator doors and ran back to safety, glancing over my shoulder one final time at the ghost of John Jay. When I finally reached my room, I still didn’t know what I had seen down there, but one thing I knew for certain: I would never be the same again.

Hallowed Halls via Bwog Archives