Kitty Litter
Sunday, October 24, 2004
The Ubiquitous and Unoriginal Blog Post for Halloween
Everyone thinks that horror is defined by what goes bump in the night. Believe me, I often nab my Intro to Literature students on this one. But since I swore this would be a cheerier, happier blog (and since my own blog pet—see sidebar—says I need to lighten up) here are a few versions of Helloween (spelling deliberate) for those in need of a laugh.
In my first year of teaching, I became close to an Engineering block I handled, and the kids there organized a “ghost hunt” on campus. Given all the stories of ghosts on UP campus, we were eager to see the requisite headless men, white ladies, floating protoplasm, and sundry other supernatural beings. But Botch, (and yes, that is his name and that is how it is spelled) along with Clint, the class president, decided to spice things up a bit. They organized small-group tours of “severely haunted” areas on campus. Groups of four or five would go in and come out laughing nervously.
When it was my turn, I was accompanied by two girls and three members of the UP men’s basketball team who were my students. Let’s refer to them as Pretty Boy, Big Boy, and Future PBA Star Boy. We ascended the dark stairs leading to the fourth floor of Palma Hall. Ambient noises made us jump and shudder every now and then. But Big Boy kept cracking nervous jokes about jumping off the ledges next to us. Strangely, this was comforting, at least until we reached the fourth (and top) floor. We passed one room from which we could hear unearthly whispering.
“What was that?” Pretty Boy quivered, and pointed at one door.
Future PBA Star Boy, the bravest of the lot, said, ”Wait. I’ll find out.” He slowly approached the door, and the closer he got, the less whispering we heard. As he was about to push the door open, it suddenly creaked on its hinges.
The trio screeched, and fled down the stairs. We followed quickly, squealing a little, and I timed Future PBA Star Boy’s descent from the fourth floor to the ground floor. Eight seconds. No wonder was known as the fast break specialist in the UAAP during his time.
I heard someone coming up behind us, and, resigned to my fate, faced the source of the noise. It was Botch, giggling like a girl. Turns out Clint had planted him there for the express purpose of scaring those who walked by.
In my first year of teaching, I became close to an Engineering block I handled, and the kids there organized a “ghost hunt” on campus. Given all the stories of ghosts on UP campus, we were eager to see the requisite headless men, white ladies, floating protoplasm, and sundry other supernatural beings. But Botch, (and yes, that is his name and that is how it is spelled) along with Clint, the class president, decided to spice things up a bit. They organized small-group tours of “severely haunted” areas on campus. Groups of four or five would go in and come out laughing nervously.
When it was my turn, I was accompanied by two girls and three members of the UP men’s basketball team who were my students. Let’s refer to them as Pretty Boy, Big Boy, and Future PBA Star Boy. We ascended the dark stairs leading to the fourth floor of Palma Hall. Ambient noises made us jump and shudder every now and then. But Big Boy kept cracking nervous jokes about jumping off the ledges next to us. Strangely, this was comforting, at least until we reached the fourth (and top) floor. We passed one room from which we could hear unearthly whispering.
“What was that?” Pretty Boy quivered, and pointed at one door.
Future PBA Star Boy, the bravest of the lot, said, ”Wait. I’ll find out.” He slowly approached the door, and the closer he got, the less whispering we heard. As he was about to push the door open, it suddenly creaked on its hinges.
The trio screeched, and fled down the stairs. We followed quickly, squealing a little, and I timed Future PBA Star Boy’s descent from the fourth floor to the ground floor. Eight seconds. No wonder was known as the fast break specialist in the UAAP during his time.
I heard someone coming up behind us, and, resigned to my fate, faced the source of the noise. It was Botch, giggling like a girl. Turns out Clint had planted him there for the express purpose of scaring those who walked by.
Labels: funny stories, halloween
