Scritch.
Twas the night before classes, and inside the Quad,
a lone creature was stirring. I thought it was a mouse.
Scritch-scratch.
The sophomores were nestled all snug in their twin XLs,
while visions of “opens that don’t actually suck” danced in their heads.
Scritch-scritch-scritch-scratch-scurry-scritch.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard in the walls
the echoes and giggles of dozens of calls:
“Hi! ⛧ Ẃ̵͕̦ḧ̸̡͚̃á̶͓̞̭́̔̕͝t̶̥̍’̸̛̛͉̜́s̵̢̘̈̎̽̍ ̸̩̖̣͌̏y̶͔͉̳̯̾͜͝o̷͚̞͋̇̐̃ú̴̧̧͚̩̣͘r̷̭̳͈̾͘ ̵̨̱͎̩̈́̃͆͝n̸̪̎̋à̶̡̜͔̍͐͝m̵̜̠̣͉̬̋̈́͘e̵̜͚̥͆̅̃̈́́ ̸̘̩̒̂ą̶̭̖̓̑n̴͎̍͆͗̋͐d̸̠̔ͅ ̸͕̻͔̪̙̽͛m̴̝̫̪̀͐ą̷̿̒̊̈ĵ̷͎̜̭̈́̄̀ö̷̳̫̥͓̭r̴̹̰̘̱͗̿͋̄̈́?̶̙̫̠̖͖̔̽ ⛧”
they in
are
with
me
where
here
every where.
The freshmen are in the walls.
I like to think of myself as a rational person. I’m a woman in STEM (#girlboss). I pay attention to silly things like if the crushing feelings of despair are simply a lack of sleep (only sometimes). If I veer into any occult happenings, it’s just for the bit. However, my duty as an investigative reporter is to bring you the truth, no matter how eerie and invasive. It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you to check your walls.
Moving into year three of the University’s student housing crisis, stock brokers, ResLife forecasters, and general campus gambling enthusiasts were prepared to encounter unorthodox solutions to accommodate all first-year students into their required on-campus housing. After all, repeatedly stacking freshmen on top of each other in triples does not seem to be of particular help.
Some propagandists will tell you that the problems have been solved: The disgraced solo Humor Editor, silly be his name, has taken up the preposterous stance that they’ve simply expanded Gilbert Hall. Lies! Lies and deception! (Also, physics schmysics.) And he calls himself an engineer! How would that even work? Gilbert is an immovable mass resting upon impenetrable ground. So many dubious liquids have been spilled in its grassy surroundings that I doubt a shovel could even hit unexposed dirt. The answer you’re seeking is much more obvious.
THEY ARE IN THE WALLS I SWEAR THEY’RE IN THERE.
You don’t believe me? Prepare for sorrow. Whose fingers are stroking the asbestos? Whose spit is dripping from my ceiling? Who keeps calling out icebreakers and asking if I want to go to the dining hall together?
My deduction is simple: Facing an astonishing lack of beds, dressers, and the right to human space allocated by the Geneva Convention, the University has insidiously resorted to setting up dorm space between other dorm spaces. First-years are being horribly flattened in a fashion akin to Flat Stanley just so that they can fit the confines of the prison they shall call home for the rest of the year.
THEY’RE HERE I SWEAR.
If you are unprepared to accept the Wall Freshmen, they will come to you. Creeping in the cracks, dwelling in the doorways, ready to strike. You will be encircled by their naïvete and promptly smothered under their pre-med aspirations. Thus, when whispers along your bed make you wonder if you’re actually losing it and hallucinating, remember — they don’t know any better. They never asked to be in your walls.
