The bathrooms in the ASU music building are haunted.  I swear!  We don't have any Moaning Myrtles, but we do have a Rustling Rachel and Tansy Toilet: The People-Swallower.  And, being of the female persuasion, I’m only dealing with the delicate sex here.  I daren’t even imagine what lurks in the mysterious shadows of the men’s John.  Who knows?  With all that testosterone floating around, the guys might have a Disemboweling Duncan or a Hacking Heathcliff hiding amongst the spiders or rotting egos or whatever else lurks in their Loo.

A note to the reader: Since I’ll be studying in London next semester, I’ve been trying to teach myself English--British English, that is.  Apparently, Englanders give their toilets names like Loo and John, so I’ve adopted the habit too.  Yeah, I know. Weird.  They (the British, not their pet toilets) are also fond of naming trucks “Lorry.”  And boy do they love their blenders (they call them “Posh”)!  Every morning, your average chap whips up his day’s sentences--along with some strawberries and bananas--and produces higgledy-piggledy mish-mash like, “Pahdon me, but have you any crumpets?” and “That handkerchief did an Egyptian to my mother give!”  Why can’t this fellow take a lesson from America’s youth and just say, “Gimme a muffin!” and “Shakespeare was a goon”?   Beyond me it is, forsooth.

Now back to the topic at hand: Erica’s overactive imagination.  No, wait:  The very real, toilet-imitating apparitions at ASU.   That was it.  But first, I can’t resist asking: Doesn’t the title of this column sound like a children’s book gone horribly wrong?   (I might also ask how I got away with using three colons in the last four sentences.)  “Tansy Toilet and the Loo” has such a pleasant, alliterative lilt that people might accidentally overlook the fact that such a story would be set in a bathroom with a potty as its protagonist.  The thought amuses me no end.  Someone ought to write a children's series--“Laurie Lilac and the Garden;” “Precious Pony and the Pasture”--and smuggle “Tansy Toilet and the Loo” in there somewhere. Just a thought.

But now I really must address ASU’s sobering predicament (and it takes a lot to sober up party-hardy ASU--let me tell you!).  I get the feeling that you don’t recognize the gravity of this situation.  Permit me, therefore, to relate the bone-rattling circumstances surrounding my blood-curdling run-in with Tansy Toilet: The People-Swallower.  This is no ordinary ghost tale.  This is real (just like every other ghost story in the whole wide US of A).   It actually happened.  To me.  Earlier today.  I’ll tell it in the present tense to maximize the horror factor: 

The sun hangs ominously in the sky.  (Can the sun be ominous? Sure—when the temperature is approximately 300 degrees.)  Inside the music building, a trembling young woman (I hadn’t eaten breakfast) cautiously advances into the girls’ bathroom.  (Well, actually I just sauntered in, but that sort of murders the mood.)  Sweat trickles down her forehead (did I mention it was 300 degrees outside?) as she braces herself and prepares to enter a stall.  To her dismay, the stall door is locked.  She waits five minutes.  Ten.  Finally, she ventures a peek through the crack between the stall door and frame.  (Note:  This would NOT be okay except for the fact that I was quite certain by this time that no one was relieving themselves in there!)  Her blood runs chill and her pupils swallow up her head as she realizes that the stall contains nothing but. . .a pile of text books!!!  It looks exactly as if some unsuspecting creature entered the stall, locked the door, sat down her books and her rear end, and was swallowed up by Tansy.  And she had been.  The end.

See what I mean?  Chilling, isn't it?  And twice last week, I entered the bathroom and could’ve sworn I heard the rustle of toilet paper when no one was inside either of the stalls! 

 I am now slowly going crazy, but at least I’m preparing myself for life in London.  I hear that Europe is populated by legions of really ancient ghosts, although most of these would rather hang around crumbly castles than bustling universities.  Some Londoners have house ghosts, though, in much the same way that Americans have house cats.  I’m sure these jolly old phantasms impersonate latrines from time to time, which must be why the British are in the habit of naming their potties. (Question to self:  Can a ghost impersonate a toilet?)   Hey!  While I’m in England, I should write “Tansy Toilet and the Loo” myself and set the touching tale in downtown London.   I’ll invite you to my book signing as long as you promise to scramble your sentences and throw in a few “hence”s and “forsooth”s for good measure.  I’ll invite Tansy and Rachel, too, as long as they promise not to do any people-slurping.  So there you have it.  We’ll all live happily ever after: The crazy Americans, the quirky British, and our reformed pet ghosts.  Good night.