This is, of course, a dramatization.

Recently, a group of Flor-Ala writers bravely spent their Friday night searching for the obscure and haunted in some of the UNA buildings. To be completely frank, I was offended that I was not chosen. Obviously, the editor who picked the writers for this assignment did not realize how seasoned I am in the art of ghost busting, or how much I enjoy creeping around at night.

It was clearly a mistake that I was not picked for the story, and instead of embarrassing the editor by calling him out, I took the initiative to go forward with my own article. First step: finding a haunted building. I feel confident no one will disagree with the statement, “Rivers is the most haunted place in Florence.”

I grabbed the sleeping bag I had rented from the Outdoor Adventure Center, a keychain pepper spray and my shop-vac. Boy, was I ready.

As I walked into the dorm 1 a.m. Friday, it was evident there was something of the paranormal afoot. Three young women greeted me who had obviously been possessed with a spirit, or spirits, yelling that their Grecian society was superior to others-they mentioned squirrels. One of them sprinted outside to puke.

I did not see them as a threat, but I could easily tell they had been infected with some zombie disease, and I needed to get away from them before they started their next stage of the disease where they cried uncontrollably and continually asked me to confirm their beauty.

Thinking it a safe way to travel to the top floor, I ran to the elevator. Wow, was I wrong! Some demon was evidently living within. Why else would it open on floors I did not request or just stop abruptly? Finally, I reached the top floor where I planned to spend the night.

Like with many haunted places, a story exists to explain why the building is haunted. No one shared with me the tale of why Rivers is such a scary place, so I was left to do my own journalistic research to find out the cause. Minutes after rolling my sleeping bag out, I started to understand.

Feminine-sounding, earsplitting shrieks echoed from one end of the hallway to the other followed by pounding on the walls. I was utterly terrified. What had I gotten myself into? I wanted to run but knew I needed to stay and find out what was going on.

I yelled to the shrieking voice, “Who are you, and why do you haunt these halls?”

After listening to her response, it became clear she had died of grief over the loss of her child and wished she had more time with the child. Maybe the sixth floor of Rivers was once a neonatal ward of a hospital.

She continued to yell, “More! More! Yes! Oh, Baby, Oh, Baby. Yes! More!”