One Hall-of-a-Ween

The Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum is a quaint, abandoned sanatorium nestled in the quiet town of Weston, West Virginia. Among its many esteemed former guests are Marilyn Manson and yours truly! That's right, for Halloween weekend I ventured with three fellow Asburians to meet some ghosts at the mother of all loony bins.

We arrived in the afternoon to the sight of the gargantuan fortress towering over a dead courtyard. The structure, which conveniently rests upon exactly 666 acres of land, seemed at first very intimidating. Its menacing Gothic architecture complemented the decaying foliage, piercing wind and overcast sky. Who knew what secrets this labyrinth held, how many poor souls took their last breath in this tomb. And then I saw the parade of kids dressed up as aliens, princesses and their favorite Jersey Shore characters, and it made it kind of hard to take seriously—there was also a Philly cheesesteak stand set up right in front of the entrance. What happened to the good old days when ghosts haunted the crap out of people who made light of their death?

Disappointingly, after perusing the lobby of the main building for a few minutes, I hadn't seen a single spirit, phantasm or creepy blood-covered child. Maybe the gift shop stocked some sort of ghost repellent (I may have seen a can of "Ghoul-Be-Gone" on the counter). After performing our first round of ghost busting, we made our way back to the hotel to prepare for the "Witch's Ball" (which is entirely unlike the Philosopher's Stone) and "Ward 24," a haunted house which takes place within the storied walls of the asylum's most notorious site.

Because I had not planned on dressing up and since I am very unoriginal, I went as the most generic Thriller zombie imaginable. Whatever—better than going as Broke College Student. As darkness fell upon the land, the most horrifying part of the night had come at last: waiting in line for tickets alongside all of the overweight women who had dressed up as French maids and "hot" nurses. After signing a waiver stating that we cannot legally sue if we were to become physically ill due to the event (nausea, headache, death, etc.), we took our places at the front door while we received further instructions. No touching the 'patients,' no going off the path and something about cameras that I was too busy filming to hear. Thankfully, screaming like a newly spanked five-year-old was not discouraged.

The building was dark. And nasty. And inhabited with creepy kids covered in blood (I finally got my wish!). It began as a series of somewhat predictable jump-scares (after which they would hiss in your face and mutter stuff about green jelly beans or "the voices"), but it quickly evolved into the manifestation of every nightmare I've ever had. We hesitantly entered one foggy corridor in which a dripping, dilapidated body hung from the ceiling. Because the thought of someone being murdered fifteen feet away just wasn't eerie enough for these jerks, a grotesque and slender creature rose out of the mist wielding a freshly-used axe. Standing with its head mere inches from the ceiling, he strode proudly across the moist floor towards us as if to say, "Do you guys like what I did with this one? I quite enjoy the contrast between the tearing cuts on his right leg and the clean lacerations on the left. What do you guys think? And remember, this is for posterity, so be honest." This was the first time I wet myself.


The second, third and fourth times came in a pitch black hallway literally crawling with monstrosities and lit solely by the red silhouette of the far door and pulsating lights. Flickering on and off, the strobes were our only beacon of hope. We would inch our way closer and closer to the door, the lights would go off and we would wait. Lights on. "That kid was not there earlier!" Lights off. "Just gotta wait for them to come back on ... still off ... still off!" Luminescence never returned, and panic set in as I came to the realization that no longer would I see the light of day. The darkness suffocated my eyes, and madness overcame my soul. I was never heard from again.


And now they say on the night of a full moon, if you hold your ear to a newspaper and listen closely, you can hear the clitter-clatter of dirty fingernails on a keyboard.

Check out footage from my trip here.

I Want Candy

Ah, beautiful autumn. Leaves have turned to warmer colors as the air has grown cooler, the pumpkin population is rising, and The Green looks like a quickly decaying corpse. Fall brings back so many great memories; I remember of jumping into and being engulfed by gargantuan piles of leaves and emerging screaming because bits of twig and foliage had latched onto my cornea like some sort of leafy lamprey. It's just a wonderful time of year.

I've always felt that everything is tastier in the fall. Think about it - a hot bowl of chili is so much more comforting just when the weather gets a bit nippy, turkey is never as delicious as on that fourth Thursday of November, and that Twix bar with a razor blade hidden inside of it is totally worth it on Halloween night. Heck, some of our editors here at the Collegian even eat some of the crispier leaves. Fall food is good food.

I can imagine the feast waiting for me when I return home for fall break: Hungry Jack mashed potatoes fresh out of the box; a nice TLT sandwich where the turkey is nice and lean, and the tomato is ripe; and a large, shimmering ham on which someone thought it would be a good idea to place pineapples (haven't we had enough of these yet?). And who doesn't love the autumnal desserts? Cranberry sauce, yams, pumpkin pie - okay, I actually hate those. But there's banana pudding, Oreo pie, and any of the various candies still leftover from Halloween!

That's why a few weeks ago when I swore off sugar for a month, I made the biggest mistake of the season imaginable. One day after I had been inspired by a friend to take on the self-imposed challenge, I was informed that Halloween was this month (look, my calender called it "All Hallow's Eve," okay?). And imagine my surprise when I found out that soft drinks have sugar in them! Not only had I banned myself from the biggest candy night of the year, but I had also eliminated my primary source of fluids.

The next night was Trustees' open dorm. To keep myself from being tempted by the sugary delicacies that would no doubt be offered to entice unwitting females into our rooms, I went to an '80s party at UK (well, that's my excuse anyway). Sporting only the shortest of electric blue shorts, I arrived to find myself bombarded by so many forbidden fruits: Snickers and Kit-Kats and gummi bears, oh my! I sighed and grabbed a bottle of water.

After an exhausting three-hour session of not dancing, our group went to good ole Steak 'n Shake. I stood in all of my indecent glory as we waited to be seated (you ever feel like everyone in the room is staring at your... you know?), and remembered the pact I had made with myself as we made it to our table. "Yes, could I have a banana strawberry side-by-side shake without all the ice cream and stuff? Thanks." The waitress didn't seem to understand my needs. "You mean, like, just a banana and some strawberries? Sorry, I don't think we can do that," she informed me. Darn it. I really wanted that shake. "Do you have a steak-shake or something? Like just a blended up hamburger? Ooh! And some fries, too!"

After being declined my perfectly reasonable request, I had to sit complacently and watch everyone else slowly drink their delicious, creamy nectar. No one even finished their entire milkshake! Neither my tears nor saliva could quench my thirst for sugar. Will I even be sane when I receive that sweet release on November 7th? Only time will tell. But the road to Candy Land thus far has been paved with sweat and will power, not chocolate and caramel. After all, nobody said it would be a piece of cake.