You enter Thompson Library on the Oval side, and you immediately notice something’s different…something’s wrong. It is a bit dark, and there is a candle lit in the corner. Also, Thompson’s bust has turned from stone to flesh. Thompson’s carefully carved head and shoulders are sallow, raw, and oozing blood all over the place. The floor is thick with blood. Thompson’s flesh-bust opens its mouth and lets out a thick, gurgling scream, confused and horrified by its own lack of torso and other body-things. You awkwardly sidle past the screaming bust, trying not to faint in terror, trying to drown out the screams by muttering condolences to the Thompson flesh-bust. You push open the glass doors that are now covered with bust-blood, and enter:
The First Floor: You just came for a copy of Criticizing Modern Art for your awful, awful GE class, but it is clear that it will not be easy. There are giant cobwebs, grisly jack-o-lanterns, and inert skeletons lying about everywhere, and the stairs are moving and sliding around like so many sliding stairs. This book’s not worth it, you say to yourself, and you turn to leave. But there is no door. You do not see any way out. That leaves only one option. It is obvious that you must make your way all the way to the eleventh floor, braving each level one by one, if you ever wish to leave again. You make your way through the sticky cobwebs, and the groaning skeletons, and the students just trying to find a nice place to study. You can’t catch the stairs, so you decide to go to the Buckeye Bar to fix your Toshiba laptop that you forgot was broken. But they just put more viruses on it, and a program that makes everything look like Bon Jovi, so you throw your laptop away, find the elevator, and go to:
The Second Floor: It is dark and quiet, and you do not know what to expect because it is dark and quiet. Out of the shadows steps Brutus Buckeye, but with fangs and devil eyes! He high-fives you a little too hard, and you run, only to find Michael Drake with fur! He is a werewolf, and he will launch a thorough investigation into your organization’s conduct if you don’t run away! And also he will bite you! You run in a third direction, only to find zombie ex-President Gee riding the giant sloth-skeleton from Orton! His body and career have been raised from the dead! You run up the second-floor stairs (which are unmoving, but still slimy), and breathlessly burst onto:
The Third Floor: There are still unmoving students slumped about, looking at their Toshiba laptops and their android phones reading emails and texting their families, but it no longer looks like Thompson. You see a Cane’s, and a COTA bus, and several police officers and you know it is High Street as well. And there are hobos….hobos everywhere. You shuffle past them, awkwardly avoiding eye contact, and when they ask you for money, you insist that you don’t have any, that “I only carry a credit card. Modern finance, am I right?” And they know you’re lying, and you know they know you’re lying, but you shuffle past, terrified out of your wits by the guy with the mysterious newspaper asking you to help the homeless. You express regret that you cannot help the guy get “just a bus ticket, just a single bus ticket so I can visit my niece”, and callously push past them to the stairs, and up to:
The Fourth Floor: You see some books finally, and you hope that yours is there somewhere in the massive unorganized pile in the middle of the room. As you start to sort through them dewey-decimally, they flap their covers and fly through the air at you. A copy of Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle hits you in the head and you are more worried about America’s meat industry. Bearing uncomfortable thoughts of where exactly that brisket came from, you climb the stairs to:
The Fifth Floor: Thinking about the death-brisket made you hungry and there is a sign that says “Chipotle: Over Here”, and you happy-prance in the direction the sign indicates because you’ve got the rumblies, but when you get there, it is just a guy without shoes standing there and he says “There actually is no Chipotle.” And you respond “Awwww….” And he responds “Haha. Aren’t we mean?” And you respond “Yes” and leave, and soon arrive at:
The Sixth Floor: A man in a hazmat suit casually strolls by and you realize….This is the Ebola floor. CNN is playing on dozens of TVs and all they talk about is Ebola and ISIS sometimes. A man who introduces himself as being from Mozambique tries to shake your hand, and you’re pretty sure that place is in Africa so he must have the Ebola, but you already shook his hand and now you’ve probably got it too. A nurse covered in bodily fluids high fives you a little too hard, and now you are sure you are doomed. You decide to continue anyway, up the stairs to:
The Seventh Floor: There is orange marmalade everywhere, all the way up to your chest. You don’t know how it got here, or why it is up to your chest but there it is. There is also a vampire, but he can’t do anything because he is covered in orange marmalade. There are snappy students who really just want to study that are also covered in orange marmalade. They eye you warily as you pass. There are some books written in a language you do not know, maybe Persian or something, and they are covered in orange marmalade. You slog your way to the stairs, and enter:
The Eighth Floor: A popular improv comedy group is making the funnies at you. They call for a suggestion, and one of the students says “dildo” and they sigh and run with it. You stay and watch the show, and it is really pleasant, but you really must get going. Then:
The Ninth Floor: You throw open the door, and there in the middle of the room is your fourth-grade teacher. This haunted library is getting personal. She tells you that you are going to end up a leper if you don’t learn your multiplication tables. “Do you like sunlight, Frank? Then learn your multiplication tables!” And then also every girl who ever dumped you or rejected you is sitting there reading a detailed and comprehensive list of all your failures and shortcomings, compiled by your mother. They make exclamations like “Mmhmm”, and “I remember that.” You do your best to be nonchalant, but let’s face it, they all know how embarrassed and, blushing, you make your way up to:
The Tenth Floor: There is total darkness. You hear scurrying underfoot, and stomping overfoot, and regular walking at about mid-foot, and you bump into several small tables. A woman screams, and another woman shushes her, and the first woman meekly apologizes. Groping through the dark, you grab what feels like another dude’s chest because it is another dude’s chest, and you mutter an apology, and he says it’s okay, and you end up striking a conversation. You get stuck in small talk for forty-five minutes. His name is Tyler, and he’s a second-year Economics major. He doesn’t know what he is going to do with his degree yet, but he’ll figure something out. You add him on Facebook, and then he high-fives you a little too hard, and you regret adding him. You finally find the stairs for:
The Eleventh Floor: There are no windows or chairs or tables, or anything. Except for a small book in the middle of the room. It’s your book, Criticizing Modern Art, and you take it underarm and make a mad dash for the elevator, which graciously takes you all the way back to the bottom. You run out of the library, past the Thompson flesh-bust that asks you for some spare change, and you politely mutter that you don’t carry cash anymore and that “Credit cards, am I right?”, and run out of the door and back home. You take the book out, and there it is! Criticizing Modern Art: The Sixth Edition. Sixth Edition?!! You need the Eighth! You sigh wearily, and head in the direction of SBX….
-Ben Fogle, Senior Staff-Writer