Candy corn just isn’t enough for this ghoul…

Can you handle today’s scary story, written by Daily Editor Betsy? Have a nightlight and a happy puppy video at the ready, ’cause you may not be able to sleep after this one.

The sky is dark when you step out of Butler late one night. Buildings are dark, trees are dark – as though all of Columbia has been cloaked in shadow. It’s funny, you think, stepping down a small staircase, it was so sunny out when you went into Butler, but somehow, during the twelve hours you spent entombed within its stony, silent walls, the outside world turned from brilliant blue to absolute black.

You’re just lucky that your dorm is so close to the library.

You counted the number of steps from the front door of Butler to the front door of Wallach once: exactly forty-five. You’re on fourteen now, so thirty-one steps until you can push through the door of the building, wave a tired hello to the security guard, slump against the wall of the elevator, and eventually collapse into bed. You get excited just thinking about bed. The cozy blankets, the soft pillows, the horizontal body position, and, perhaps most importantly, the lack of textbooks.

You’re fantasizing about how wonderful it will feel to finally, finally lie down – when you hear it.

Can you swipe me into JJ’s?”

The voice sounds female, but it’s hard to tell – it has a wispy, ethereal quality, like the wind sweeping through the trees. Even after a full year of physics, you can’t calculate where it’s coming from.

You look around, searching for the source of the voice, but the only people around are a couple of girls immersed in conversation and an older kid on his cell phone who glares at you when you make eye contact.

“Swipe me into JJ’s,” the voice repeats.  “Please. You have to.”

Someone else must be hearing this. You can’t be the only one hearing voices. You can’t be the only one able to hear ghosts. You can’t be personally haunted. You’ve never done anything to offend any dead people this much, and the last time you took drugs was definitely more than a week ago, so this can’t be a drug-induced hallucination, either.

Unless it’s a too-much-studying-induced hallucination. Is that something that happens? You should ask your friend taking psych about it.

“What’re you waiting for?” the voice asks, sounding rather impatient for a disembodied fragmentation of a person. “Go to JJ’s!”

You walk over to one of the benches outside Butler–thirty steps back the way you came–instead of to your warm, wonderful dorm. You look around, check to make sure nobody’s watching you, then ask out loud, “Why do you need me to go to JJ’s?  I mean, you’re a ghost, right?”

The ghost sighs–a long, low exhale that sounds like all of the air being pushed out of a balloon. “Yes.  Unfortunately. Years of piety, years of community service, and I’m still stuck here, unable to move on. It’s really quite taxing.”

Somehow, this ghost is starting to sound less like a fellow college student and more like an old woman bemoaning the millennial generation’s dependence on the Internet. Your curiosity is starting to mount, despite your best intentions.

“But, if you’re a ghost,” you say, “why do you need me to swipe you into JJ’s? Can’t you just go wherever you want?”

The ghost sighs again, more forcefully this time. She sounds like your mother, when you told her that you were dropping calculus because there weren’t enough cute girls in your class. “Barnard students can’t get into JJ’s,” she tells you, as though this is the single greatest offense of her long life.

“And you’re a Barnard student,” you guess.

“I was. Now I’m an alum. Or, I suppose I was an alum.”

“And you can’t move on unless you get into JJ’s?”

“Yes! I thought Columbia students were supposed to be intelligent.” Something flickers, out of the corner of your eye–silver and shiny, like a reflection of the moonlight but more concentrated. Maybe ghosts are only able to materialize when they get really pissed off.

“But why … JJ’s?” you ask.

“When I was in college–back when Barnard students could swipe themselves into JJ’s–I once promised a friend that I’d meet her in JJ’s after a party. But I forgot, and she sat alone in JJ’s for hours because of me,” the ghost explains. “And I suppose it haunted me for the rest of my life.  Ha ha, yes it’s very punny. Now, can we please just go? This is getting ridiculous.”

A ghostly encounter like this is pretty exciting (you wonder if Bwog would write about it if you tipped them), but still, your bed is calling to you.

“I’m really tired,” you tell the ghost. “I was just studying econ for literally twelve hours, and I still don’t understand factor markets.”

“Really?” the ghost asks. The anger in her voice seems to have subsided somewhat, to your relief.  (Getting haunted by the ghost of a Barnard alum was not on your college bucket list.) “I was an econ major. I could probably help. Come on, just get me a hamburger or something. It would take ten minutes.”

You consider the ghost’s offer. You look up at your dorm, gaze longingly in the direction of your room’s window for a few seconds, then remember what all those upperclassmen were saying at NSOP: don’t ever let opportunities slip away just because you aren’t brave enough (or awake enough) to take them.

“Okay,” you say. “Why not. I guess I’m kind-of hungry.”

“Good,” the ghost replies. “So, profit maximization …”