As I sit and type this article, I recall the bizarre events of last night. It all started when a member of the Fed, bastion of independent thought and cynical ramblings that it is, suggested trying out some investigative journalism. I wasn't sure I understood this concept. Investigative... journalism? Investigative, ok...I am constantly investigating my friends' personal lives, that funny smell down the hall, etc. But these things are boring to write about. So I decided to look into something far bigger, something so spooky I tremble as I type: the murder room.

For the uninformed/pathetic non-urban-legend-following swine out there, the murder room (otherwise known as Ruggles 509) is the room in which a Columbia student killed his girlfriend in 2000, slitting her throat before taking a running leap into an oncoming subway train. Every year, one lucky guy/gal gets to live there and is haunted by the unhappy phantoms of the not-so-distant past. Or are they? In order to ascertain if Ruggles 509 is, as they say, haunted, I decided to do some investigative journalism (!) for myself.

My first task was locating the murder room. Although I previously referred to it as Ruggles 509, I didn't know its actual location until late in the evening. I knew it was on my friend Maria's floor, the number of which I couldn't remember, but thought to be 4, 5, 6 or 7. Operating on the clue that there was a "weird mirror" outside Maria's room, I eventually located the floor and banged on the door of the so-called murder room, hoping to gain admittance or at least an interview with its poltergeistally-advantaged occupant. Unfortunately, he was not available to admit us or comment upon his creepy situation. According to Ruggles 5 resident Maria, he was "probably with his girlfriend at Barnard, or something." Or was he? Perhaps Maria was in cahoots with the phantoms, providing much-needed cover-up with an all-too-plausible story of sexual gratification from a Barnard student, while her poltergeist friends were simultaneously violating the poor resident with a candelabra, driving him to suicide, and forcing him to make pottery. Zoinks! I hadn't actually known Maria for very long, and she was looking kind of pale. Or maybe that's just Maria. We cannot, at this juncture, say for sure.

At this point in time, I decided to retire, as it was far past my bedtime and I was still a bit woozy from ADP initiation. I had lost the battle, but not the war, between the truthful living and the deceptive dead, cloaked in their lies and bloody prom dresses. I will not halt in my quest until all the crucial questions have been answered: Is Ruggles 509 haunted? Is its occupant tortured nightly by candelabra-wielding, pot-throwing ghosts? Has he, like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, been driven to a chronic dependence on chronic (chronic is pot) in order to cope with the horrifying reality of nightly terrors? The ramen-noodle wrappers strewn about his door point to yes. Croikee! I had ghost fever, and the only prescription was more investigative journalism.

I returned a few days later to try again. The resident was again unfortunately absent. After knocking several times, I put my ear to the door and what I heard was strange indeed. At first, all I heard was traffic, but then I noticed a distinct strange sound coming unmistakably from inside the room. In addition to a rushing noise which cynics may name as the blood rushing around my eardrums, but which I know to be the swishing of the ghost's tattered and spooky garments, there was a distinct low moan. Those who would hide this haunting for unknown reasons (they were probably bribed by the ghosts) would have you believe this was nothing more than an acoustic trick played by a very old building. But the sound I heard with my own ears was unmistakable, and clearly could only have come from the possibly invisible, possibly bloody mouth of a very unrestful being. Further investigation would doubtlessly only reveal more ghostly happenings, so I am not going to bother. Don't believe the unbelievers. Just remember the general rule of thumb, and all will be well: When people tell you they don't believe in ghosts, they are probably ghosts themselves.