WL haunted?

OMG.

Like, OMG.

A few weeks ago I sat completely ALONE on the fifth floor of Wilson between two bookshelves, silently reading the Renaissance epic Gargantua and Pantagruel while underlining every grotesquely detailed poop joke I could locate within its crude pages.  As the minute hand daintily skipped down and up the nearby clock, my endless encounters with Rabelais’ narrative tales of "beshitting" and "shitting" and "fundament excrement" aroused in me a sudden desire to follow his characters' colorful examples.  I thus peeled myself off of the dust-littered carpet and sauntered toward the hallway, swaying my hips with a smile while thinking of the familiar yet private and cozy bathroom stall awaiting my bum.

But ALAS! As I approached the bathroom, each stride further assured me that the solitary crapping I had envisioned was nothing but a figment of my ruthless imagination, an impossible hope.  Behind the slightly ajar, crustily painted restroom door, I heard crisp thumps and echoed crashes that promised another’s presence.  Normally I would assume a poor girl was simply thrashing around in her struggle for poop relief, but the said noises were far too loud and consumed the entire bathroom, seeming to come one moment from the sink, the next from a stall or perhaps the floor. These thumps, frightening enough in their own ferocity, were accompanied by less boisterous, but no less and beastly sounds. In the wake of every thunderous "boom", an airy, staccato exhale, or sometimes a softened yet insistent moan would reverberate off the concrete walls and slither through the door's crack.

I stood just beyond the door, Statue of David style (minus the exposed penis because as a woman I lack one), stiffened by indecisiveness and fear.  I was scared shitless and prepared to dexterously barrel roll down the stairway, ninja style.  Yet I was so far from being literally shitless that I required urgent use of a toilet. I couldn’t turn away from those so invitingly near, calling out my name. 

Finally, my desire to know the identity of this ghastly monster (aka my implacable need to poo) convinced my arms to lengthen forward and press the door aside.  Its hinges heeded my mild shove.  Its sway scraped the floor. Whatever lurked inside stopped all movement.  The withered silence following made my stomach collapse on itself like the foam atop a chilled and flattening latte; the knots remaining made pooping surely impossible.  I stepped forward regardless.

What I encountered was shocking.  If I had been able to poopoo, I probably would have made a present for you in my panties.  Luckily, I did not.  Or maybe I’m just editing the story.

The site was miraculous and appalling, awe-filled, awful, awe-inspiring, wicked, deplorable, outrageous, scandalous. And absolutely beautiful.  A flushed and freckled red-head was precariously balanced atop the hand-dryer, legs spread. She was completely bare-assed except for striped knee-high socks, and each of her hands firmly gripped a hairy ankle that was now struggling to release itself.  Her breasts were adorned with bite marks, her chest and neck decorated with quarter-sized bruises.  Erect between her thighs was the other raunchfest participant, her partner in the crime of pleasure.  Though now slowly and shamefully sliding his body to the floor, he had been rocking a marvelous headstand upon my entrance, forearms pressing away from the earth, his corduroys folded beneath molested hair to serve as a makeshift cushion and shock absorber. His shirt, upon further absorption of the scene, I found rested beneath my left foot.  Her bra dangled tauntingly halfway outside an adjacent toilet bowl.  The remainder of the picture can well be envisioned by any creative reader, though I’d never intend to leave much up to the imagination.

With this remarkable vision, this risqué, picturesque frame, my story quickly turns from horror to comedy and meets with the happiest of endings.  For, you see, these adventurers had been making the two-backed beast for almost an hour, and were more than ready to morph it into three.  Luckily for me, the intense frights of the evening had stirred my bowels so wildly that they no longer required release, and I was able to join in the fun-filled exploration without any discomfort (beyond the muscle cramps that resulted from contortionist-like positions I explored).

So, the point of this story is that, as far as I know, Wilson is not haunted by anything but the sex-fiends of WWU.

ps.  Please ignore all the formatting stuff at the beginning, I don't know why that is happening?  Stupid, stupid stupid.  The story is supposed to start at "omg"

I... am not sure what to say about that story.

P.S., fixed your formatting issue!

Madam,

My own attempt at construing a ghost story, no doubt concluding with an anticlimatic denouement along the lines of "but wait, there was a completely rational explanation!" in order to further advance my own militantly atheistic ideology, was put to such shame that I no longer dare post it here.

I hereby award you 2 Internets.*

*Not redeemable for cash. Terms and restrictions apply. While stocks last. etc etc.

Greatest ghost story about the wilson library I have ever heard. Hope you wore protection. 

Perfect.

Bahfckinghahahahahahahahahahahahahah.

Oh my god. So, I've been sitting in the computer lab contemplating whether or not skipping work was a good idea and if I should actually do the homework I told my boss that I had, when I remembered that you told me to check this out. 

God, I feel like an idiot. I probably scared the person at the computer next to me about 5 times from all of the gurgling, choking and snorting attempts at stifling my laughs. This was ridiculous. You're awesome.

you are the worst person ever. 

Fike- You're just jealous of my numerous sexual escapades.

Ranae I think you and your story rocks. I am certinly green with envy. I mean who hasn't thought about doing it in the WL?

So happy I started this thread :)