Washington College's Student Literary and Arts Journal

Issue: October 2012

Editor’s Note

Editor’s Note

Writing can be a liberating outlet for feelings, thoughts, or just energy in general.  This month’s issue focuses on all things creepy, spooky, and science fiction.  The worlds created in the imagination of a writer are some of the most fantastical and most complicated.  All of the […]

2012-2013 Collegian Staff

Thank you to all of our contributing authors and photographers.



by Valerie Dunn ’15, Staff Writer

Where the streets have no numbers
a haunted house looms, grimy with sea salt,
among the creaking groans of a deserted boardwalk.
A head without a man sends
the tinny recording of a Transylvanian accent
to the gulls, some foreigners, my father and me.
Ocean City, Maryland in October
is mostly boarded up.

The house stands crooked and shrieking
as it did when I was a kid who knew
no better than to fear
for fear itself was reason
enough to clamor onto my father’s shoulders,
cling, and cry my way through the darkness.
Somewhere around seven years old
my arms outgrew my father,
large as the threat of a haunted home.

All grown up and all fears realized
my father and I confuse
obligation with vacation
which is why I offer to pay
the price to see inside my childhood fear.
He grumbles at the cost,
maybe thinks I’m too old,
he’s too old, or it’s too cold
to linger this long at an abandoned beach.
Ocean City, Maryland in October
is mostly boarded up.

This haunted house runs year round.


In my closet
I have a few skeletons…

Ghost Story

Ghost Story

…They found the body hanging upside down, all but the feet submerged, the cord bound around the ankles looped and knotted on the oak limb above it…


by Alexander Vidiani ’15, Staff Writer

This world is imploding,
Walls caving in where
The puppeteer’s strings pull outward,
His greedy fingers tapping a steady
Staccato beat on our skulls,
On this fe-fi-fo-humdrum
Existence that he lives out
Vicariously, viciously, masochistically
Through us.

We can’t even slip through the cracks – piégé
In this web; a spider’s eyes on his face now,
Spindly fingers plucking a malevolent pizzicato
On the lines, feeling for good vibrations,
But for all our temptations
We cannot swan-dive the hell out of here.

Eventually he draws us in a line,
A broken chord,
And rails us through a straw.

Photograph by Cara Murray ’14.

In a Haze Lifted

The green grass swayed with the rhythm in my head.
The branches bent to kiss me as I walked past…

October 27th

We have a ghost
whom we like to call

Cinderella’s Day Off

by Laura A. Lord ’14


The scream echoed down the hallways. It ripped through the floorboards, scampered up the stairs, and shoved its way under her door. Sliding under the blanket, every drawn out syllable of the scream caressed her bare skin until it reached her ears, where it crawled inside and planted itself for a stay. Cindy popped up out of bed, her eyes wide at the sudden intrusion in her dreams and her muscles stiff and sore. Yesterday had been hell.

She rubbed her tired eyes, smearing the streaks of dirt on her face, before climbing out of the bed. Her bare feet hit the floor and she shivered briefly.



More screams, more noise, more racket filled the room. Cindy’s bare heel stomped at the floor boards. “Oh, I’m coming, I’m coming.” No patience, her family. Not a lick.

Passing the mirror as she walked to the door, Cindy saw her disgruntled appearance multiple times in the broken pieces. I should bathe, she thought, before hearing another chorus of screams. Suppose I don’t have time for that. With a sigh, she grabbed a dress and a ribbon, and quickly threw both on. Tying the ribbon around her knotted hair, she managed to get it back into some sort of messy bun. A cloth dunked in a basin of cold water was all she could manage, scrubbing her face, neck, and arms as she raced down the steps. One landing and the dirt was gone. By the second, her skin was turning a rosy pink. At the third, so was the cloth.

The kitchen was still warm from the embers of last night’s fire. Cindy set about pulling trays down, putting a kettle on, stoking the fire higher, and pouring bowls of oats and fruit. Another scream, this one more high pitched than the last tore through the house. Mother is awake.

Cindy was rushing now. Can’t keep Mother waiting. She quickly filled the cups with hot water, allowing the tea to steep. Then, grabbing the trays, she balanced them in her arms and pushed the kitchen door open with her hip. She climbed one flight of stairs and reached her sisters’ room. Cindy set her mother’s tray down and slipped in with the other two.

From one of the girls came a sobbing sound.

“Don’t get all upset, silly. I’ve got your breakfast right here.” Setting the trays down, Cindy rolled her eyes at the girls. “I’ll be back soon to get you cleaned up for your lessons.”

She made her way to the door as her older sister called out her name. “I have to get this to Mother. You’ll just have to wait.” Turning to close the door, she caught sight of the two girls, lying flat back in their beds and still not touching their food. “Eat up, while it’s hot.”

Closing the door, Cindy grabbed the other tray and ignored the girls’ constant hollering for her to come back.

No time. Mother’s waiting.

Her little knuckles knocked lightly at her mother’s door, before pushing it open. “I’ve brought breakfast, Mother.” Her lips broke apart into a wide smile, as she scooted around the bed and set the tray on the stand beside it. She had to step on her tip-toes to pull the curtain back from her mother’s bed, but finally it was done.

“Cin…” her mother choked out, before Cindy put a finger against her mother’s dry, cracked lips.

“Shhh now. Time to eat, Mother.”

Plopping down on the edge of the bed, she pushed her mother over slightly with her hip, making the bonds pull tightly on her mother’s arm. A small cry escaped the older woman and she turned bloodshot, rheumy eyes on Cindy.


Cindy raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Of course, let me help you, Mother.”

Taking the cup of tea, steam still rising out of it in small grey pillars, Cindy tilted the cup all the way up, spilling the scalding liquid straight onto her mother’s lips, into her mouth, and down her throat. The old woman’s choked screams filled the house as bright red blisters appeared and flakes of flesh peeled off her cheeks. Blood ran from the cracks in her lips and pooled at the corners of her mouth.
“I do hope I got it to you before it got too cold, Mother.”

Cindy put the cup gently back onto the tray as the woman writhed against her bonds; her screaming had turned into a gurgle of barely smothered pain.

Leaning down, Cindy plucked at one of the threads on her mother’s gown. “Oh. I need to fix this stitch. Mother, dear, you must have pulled it loose.” Gripping the edge of the material, she yanked back the sleeve, the stitches ripping free one pop at a time, slowly at first and then steadily faster. Blood shot up, flecking Cindy’s apron, the bed curtains, and her mother’s face. Her mother’s thin skin had made the stitching easy, and it was all the easier really to undo the sewing with such a little tear. The cries continued for a moment, before her mother’s head simply dropped to the side and her eyes rolled up in her head.

Cindy lifted the sleeve from the nightgown and looked down at her mother with soft, gentle eyes.

“She sleeps…”

Aniket Gets Lost

…It is cool and afternoon—bright and implacable. He slides his hands over the picture frames, the stained wood table, the windowsill, the curtains, the milk walls. He drops to his knees and feels the carpet through his forehead…