Disclaimer: I am fully aware that most of you possess tales of terror, or at least whiny complaints, about your respective Charlottesville apartments. Thin walls (so you can hear your next door neighbors' thumping use of their treadmill and other various vociferous activities), broken appliances (so you can't warm up that leftover pizza in the microwave), inadequate Internet connection (so you can't avoid homework), etc, etc.
The list continues, and that whiny voice gets more high pitched, straining and annoying. However, as my lease and undergraduate career (career has a nice professional ring to it, doesn't it?) near termination, I am compelled to ruminate on this hellhole/beloved abode that I have resided in for many a month.
And what cannot escape my memory, what is forever inscribed into the portals of my brain, is more on the hellhole side of the equation, culminating in a week affectionately referred to as "the hell week." That was when, I believe, we first came to the startling and horrifyingly intriguing realization that our apartment was ... (enter creepy Alfred Hitchcock inspired music here) HAUNTED.
Her name is Lydia. She's a class one poltergeist. Definition: a mischievous ghost generally causing unexplained noises like those creepy approaching footsteps and knocking sounds. Poltergeists are also responsible for little domestic jokes such as rearranging the furniture in your living room, turning the lights off, hurtling objects in your general direction and misplacing your keys, purse, sunglasses and any other item that you always seem to lose.
Well, now you know once and for all, it's not you! You aren't stupid or forgetful! Blame it on the poltergeist! Yours, of course, might be named Blaine or Ricardo, but be aware that there is a legion of them out there wreaking havoc on your apartment's bliss. Because, of course, (enter the melody to accompany our naïve heroine) I could never believe that our landlord's negligence could have caused any of our problems.
Well, it was during the power outage marathon of Hurricane Isabel when my roommates and I decided that it was the perfect atmosphere for a séance. No lights, a not-so-raging, over-hyped storm outside and complete soberness. So we got out the Parker Brothers Ouija Board and decided to contact the spirit that had been moving our dishes to the cups cupboard and causing uproarious noises at 5 a.m. on Tuesday nights (certainly not our downstairs neighbors playing twister in a drunken stupor).
She immediately identified herself as Lydia and said she was angry because our decoration scheme favored light spring colors such as yellow and blue, and in general followed a flower and garden theme. She was also angry because she, of course, preferred the normal -- black walls, posters of angst-driven teen rappers and such. Honestly, it just came down to artistic differences. We lost about five window screens after that to Lydia's wrath, which were replaced a few months later.
Well, we certainly continued to pay for our artistic snobbishness. We didn't have heat for almost the entirety of the winter. Our steam heat radiators were forlorn. We, of course, dutifully called our landlords every day, sometimes more frequently, and they consistently seemed clueless. We would hang up the phone and sneer with narrowed eyes and a deep-throated whisper, "LYDIA," with the confidence of a detective who has finally discovered the identity of the murderer ... or maybe just like Seinfeld would say "Newman." In any event, we would say "Lydia." She must be behind it.
The real test came one week in November (enter upbeat music that cues the movie's main passage-of-time montage). We still had no heat. We walked around our apartment swathed in sweatshirts and blankets, and would go outside if we needed a little warmth. We eventually received space heaters from our landlord, but they tripped our circuits. So we had no heat and no electricity. Then our garbage disposal, which was not in use, mysteriously riled itself up into a spinning, shredding fervor and starting spitting up a volcano of water several feet into the air. The eruptions persisted and then ceased after a minute. This was never fully explained.
The next day, the water dripping from our bathroom ceiling (which, we had been assured, was not a symptom of evil or possible damage) was in fact discovered to be a water leak from the floor above. Subsequently, nice handymen invaded our bathroom and knocked out the ceiling. It was beautiful really, quite on the modern edge decorating wise. Instead of seeing a white painted ceiling, you received a wonderful view of decaying wood planks covered in various sketchy materials that we didn't ask about. Perhaps this is what caused the invasion of the giant killer flies.
And after winter break, roommate bonding was not accomplished by going to get a drink, but instead by scrubbing the green and blue and black mold which had sprouted all over my walls and closet after a water pipe burst and doused my room with water. We kept murmuring "Lydia" with the same Seinfeld intensity, since our landlords kept pleading competence and ignoring the intelligent yet bitingly witty letters that my roommate had been writing for months. Obviously, they were not to blame.
Clearly, Lydia had a penchant for burned cookies (the oven was clearly insane at this point) and cold spaces, not to mention ones that were damp and without ceilings.
We decided to have another séance. It was the final straw, and we were exhausted, jaded and didn't know where to turn. It had been a long, long journey, and there was no satisfactory ending in sight (enter heart-wrenching violin solo symbolizing the heroine's ache and desperation). Lydia clearly said that she was not to blame. It was "THE MAN."
"Who is this man," we said, but she was silent. Our landlord ignored the question as well. Hmm ...
So here is some advice for all you future leaseholders. Exorcism can be an active choice, as well as researching building codes, contacting student legal services and doing all you can to convince the person in authority that, in fact, you don't believe in ghosts at all (enter triumphant movie score music after our lovable hero has triumphed against all odds).
Alexandra Valint can be reached at valint@cavalierdaily.com
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