The SFU morgue has been off-limits to me for much of my degree — much like the swimming pool and level 0 of the AQ. The morgue is an actual lab on Burnaby campus that has technology to help authorities conduct autopsies. At SFU, lots of things die; information that goes out of date, motivation, programs . . . I swear it’s not just a directional deficiency preventing me from this liminal space between life and death; SFU is hiding something. After a study sesh in the finally-deserted MBC, I found an unmarked door. Naturally, I opened it, and descended an obstacle ramp clearly designed to keep someone out.
I was amazed by the morgue’s combination of steely cabinets and piled items, towered into dusty monuments. Once the shock that SFU has an even more maze-like concrete structure below ground subsided, I felt no shock. All of the expected stuff was here, like dead copies of those $500 loose-leaf psychology textbooks. They were stacked up into a mausoleum. Discarded versions of McFogg’s special suit, including the recalled one that was a little too anatomically correct, were laid to first rest and then decay. And then . . . I heard voices.
Hearing voices was the only scary thing about the morgue so far. People at SFU didn’t usually go out of their way to talk to me. And I liked it that way. I’ve made it through entire psychology courses without speaking to a single soul. Or maybe every student in RCB was so subdued because they didn’t read the textbooks (evidently every copy ends up in the morgue).
My curiosity trumping my worst fears, I continued to poke around the morgue, imagining how useful a flashlight could’ve been. Upon second glance, the mortuary drawers seemed to have been made from the red vinyl move-in carts, and the autopsy table was fashioned from a piece of the gym floors they ripped up way-back-when. Once again, I wasn’t all that scared by my surroundings. But the thought of another human being down here — whether they were dead or alive — made my spine tingle.
“Who are you?” a whisper, tonally shifting from low-to-high octaves with each syllable, emerged from the distance. The scariest words anyone could ever utter to me. I backed away from the noise and into a collection of damaged SMARTboards. I tried to move, but my feet had become planted on what appeared to be old coasters from the never-replaced Highland Pub. “Please,” I cried out into the distance. “Don’t reveal yourself! Let me live in my own solitude!” I cried.
I struggled to get free as semi-deflated footballs began to tumble down from a net pinned to the ceiling. That’s when I realized. The voices weren’t people. There was no one down here with me and the plethora of football gear. Phew. Thank God. The whispering sound was old footballs deflating in measured intervals.
Even after freeing myself from a sticky beer coaster, I spent about a half an hour more down there. Then, another half an hour more. I felt like I was finally at home. Home — where I could read old textbooks and skirt social interactions here. After a year, I eventually made friends with the ghosts of the forcefully-retired footballs from our old team — and began plotting revenge with them. This was my dream.
Next time you’re sitting there groaning about “unexpected Wi-Fi outages,” maybe think about me down there with those footballs. Just don’t join us. Or we’ll haunt you. Forever.
