Ever have one of those moments when you question your sanity? Welp, for me, that moment happened on a recent Saturday night in one of the bathrooms in the Richmond House at Camosun’s Lansdowne campus. I stood huddled in the corner of a rusty bathtub, heart pounding, thoroughly regretting my life choices, including eating Mucho Burrito for dinner.
It started so innocently: the culmination of Halloween-issue brainstorming and midterm stress meant managing editor Greg Pratt allowed me a break from interviewing folks on campus… at least living ones. I didn’t have my tape recorder for our discussion, but allow me to paraphrase:
Pratt: Ghost story on campus?
Me: Only if I don’t have to conjure anything.
Pratt: What about playing Bloody Mary in the bathroom upstairs at midnight?
Me: That feels like conjuring.
Pratt: It would make a good story.
I couldn’t really argue his logic, but I had two conditions: I had the right to bail, and someone was coming with me for protection.
Our fearless student editor Adam Marsh was quickly offered as my sacrificial lamb—for some reason, he was actually stoked about the idea. We Googled “Bloody Mary” to clarify the ritual: stand in bathroom, stare in mirror, light candle, chant name, spin around.
According to Wikipedia (which seemed as reliable a source as any) the “apparition allegedly appears as a corpse, a witch or a ghost; can be friendly or evil, and is sometimes ‘seen’ covered in blood.” It also says that “participants may endure the apparition screaming at them, cursing them, strangling them, stealing their soul, drinking their blood, or scratching their eyes out.” Lovely. When I told this to Pratt, he said to make sure to get her quotes right. Super helpful.
Begrudgingly, I made agreements with Marsh to go on a Thursday at midnight; two failed attempts in which one or both of us fell asleep early—and a quick re-Google to confirm there isn’t an actual time frame for the game anyway—meant we agreed that midnight EST was more civilized. We set our date with Bloody Mary for Saturday at 9 pm PST.
After gorging ourselves on a last supper of burritos and churros and debating if an unscented tealight was a better light source than my tri-wick candle that smells like hot man and campfire, we went over our last-minute game plan. Marsh: conjure. Me: sit in hallway in fetal position and cry.
Marsh reviewed the rules and decided to try it out in my apartment bathroom first—which resulted in the necessity of a safe word because apparently me shrieking “don’t you dare conjure shit in my bathroom” like an irrational banshee wasn’t clear enough.
My mini-meltdown delayed us, and we ended up arriving at Richmond House at 9:42 pm. The old building was pitch black and the wind whistled as we shuffled up to the front door. My fingers trembled so hard I fumbled with the lock as we made our way into the building. I cursed Pratt and vowed if I died, I would legit haunt his ass as we ascended to the top floor bathrooms.
A word about the bathrooms in the upstairs of Richmond House. They’re hella old. And because it used to be an actual house, they have bathtubs in them. Only one has a mirror, and it’s on the opposite wall from the tub… which means if we were successful, Bloody Mary would appear looking like she just crawled out of the shower drain.
My heart pounded as I watched Marsh place the tealight on the edge of the sink and strike a match. A tiny cloud of smoke danced through the dim room. A shadow flickered in the mirror. Nope: “I’m not playing,” I announced before bolting,
I stood in the hall, suddenly aware of how thin the bathroom door is, as I listened in horrified silence to Marsh chant, “Bloody Mary… Bloody Mary… Bloody Mary.”
Silence.
Then: “Oh, fuck!” A normally cool-headed Marsh exited the blackened room. “The shadow totally shifted behind me!”
I watched his freaked-out nervousness for an uncomfortably long moment.
“How did it go?” I finally asked.
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
(When he finally did talk about it, I learned the candle-induced shadow on the wall behind him moved a good couple feet when he said her name.)
He decided he needed to do it again, and I questioned his sanity as he went back into the bathroom.
Our safe word flashed in my mind as Marsh chanted and twirled in the dark. When he finally came back out, he looked (slightly) less spooked.
“Nothing happened that time,” he said. “I guess she went to sleep.”
In a moment of bravery (or stupidity) I decided I was going to try. With the light on. And Marsh standing with me.
No, wait, I wasn’t. No, I was. Nope, I wasn’t.
Finally, I hopped in front of the mirror, took a deep breath, and said… “Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice.” When Michael Keaton didn’t appear, I repositioned myself in the mirror. “Bloo—nope, I don’t wanna do it. It’s creepy AF.”
This went on for a good 30 seconds, before I compromised on standing next to the open bathroom door and watching Marsh say it again. When nothing happened, I banged my hand against the wall to scare him. Because I’m an asshole.
After an uncomfortable giggle session, we decided to close the session.
We respectfully requested she not follow us home, so if there’s a funky shadow in the Richmond House bathroom mirror, my bad.