It all began, as so many things do, at the Cleveland Commons--in one of those individual locking stalls that are usually so clean and quiet. As I reached to open the doorknob, it shifted and twitched, writhing serpentine away from my grasping fingers, hissing in deep pitch some phrase indecipherably beautiful. A line of dark ink spilled down from the ceiling, bleeding through the walls into glyphs and letters in some script I could not read, shifting and striding towards some conclusive meaning I could not guess. I screamed in my surprise and grabbed the serpent by its head, by some act of fearful strength holding its jaws shut until I breached the bathroom door and fled.

          Back at my table, my roommate and their companions inquired as to my disheveled state, but as I made no attempt to explain, they transferred the conversation to more congenial subjects. I made every effort to forget the episode. I almost succeeded, until the second visit.

          It came to me on the second floor of Olin Hall, whose bathroom I had ducked into for an expedient escape; the sight of my notorious rival, approaching down the stairs, induced me to seek cover. As I entered into that bathroom (suitable as a hiding place if nothing else), I heard laughter. At first thinking it to be my rival, I prepared myself for battle of wits or blades, but, after a time, I realized that the sound of laughter was not drawing nearer, nor changing in volume, nor even pausing for breath. It was, in short, no creation of a human throat. Once again the walls began to grow marks, which crawled like clouds of insects over their tiled faces and slowly, slowly, began to tremble like the beating of a heart. This time, I did not flee. I stayed to listen, though I knew not why. My Reader, I was soon to learn the truth.

         The walls whispered and sang, they thrummed and moved, and in these strange messages I felt, sensed, suspected, some effort to communicate. There was meaning behind them, of that I had no doubt. What it could be eluded me, but its beauty compelled me just the same. I knelt down before the sink and vowed to read those pulsing walls until such time as I could understand them.

         But after that day, the bathroom walls impassively ignored me, remaining blank but for frivolous gossip and poetry, the latter exceedingly rudimentary, perhaps suitable for some trite zine. Still I remained faithful, even as the days turned into weeks while I waited fruitlessly for another message. I sketched each character I could remember, and pinned each one to my bulletin board, connecting them with bits of string as seemed relevant. My roommate disparaged my new visions with such vulgar diatribes as “that’s weird,” and “bro, you’re like a conspiracy theorist, or something.” Soon, my neighbors in Stanton Hall buzzed and thrummed with similar stinging suppositions. 

But I knew better. By pieces and parts, I began to understand the meaning, the meaning, the meaning, of the bathroom walls. Soon, my roommate, my rival, and every pathetic worm on the Whitman College campus would see me for the awakened prophet I truly was. Of this I had unshakable faith.

         It came to pass on one October night that my loyalty was rewarded. The moon was new and the sky was dark as I studied halfheartedly, reading a paltry mortal tome for some irrelevant class. From time to time, my gaze flicked across my shrine of symbols until at last I could sit no longer. Agitated, I rose, stepped and strode through the hallways into the nearest bathroom. As I slipped into the room, the walls bloomed with arabesque patterns and an unearthly music sounded from all around me. I wept a single joyous tear.

         It was then that the tendrils began to emerge from the smooth porcelain bowl of the toilet before me. They were not quite the tentacles of an octopus, nor were they those of a squid. There was no earthly animal to which I could compare them, no creation of nature that could approach their perfection. They reached for me and I did not deny them. I brought them to my own face, and as they coiled around me I gasped, for in that moment I SAW. I FELT. I BECAME- more than I had ever been before. I tore myself from their grasp and ran from the room, leaping and bounding and hurtling towards the balcony of Stanton, ignoring the looks and gasps I garnered from onlookers in my wake.

          In the clear-black night, I saw the bathroom wall curling in a single strand of mist. I saw translucent shapes in the depths of space, and with my mortal eyes I glimpsed the things that crawl behind the stars. Reader, I saw beauty that defies human classification, and I knew in my soul and body that this grace was meant for me, and me alone. Reader, I threw up my hands into the darkness and I howled.

          It was then that the distant clock tower began to chime out, solemnly, the central hour of this sacred night. In the shadows of thirteen chimes did I once again hear the telltale sound of my rival’s voice, far away and yet near, there and yet not.

          I knew then why I had heard my rival’s laughter before, and seethed as I recognized one more indignity added to the list of those he had inflicted upon me. He, too, knew the meanings of the writings on the bathroom walls! I had resolved to keep those messages to myself, and had every impression that the forces that scribed them had appointed me as their true messenger.

A second certainty now dawned upon me. The grotesque forces from beyond would choose one of us as their true messenger, and they were waiting for one of us to prove ourselves so they could determine which was worthy. I could think of only one way to ensure my rightful place. My roommate may have seen something in my eyes when I returned to the room and took up my chef’s knife, but they gave no indication, their eyes glued to the trivial task before them. (Knitting, at a time like this?!)

          My most hated rival had mercifully succumbed  to sleep by the time I slithered in through his window, my shadow falling with smooth serenity over his silent form. It was a most peaceful slumber, but one from which he would never awaken.

           His blood dripped from my hands as I staggered, back, back, back, to the bathroom. Screams reached me not long after, but they came to me from far away, through the thick, murky waters of reality. With this blood, his blood, I traced over the patterns, the writing on the wall, and finally it answered me directly, echoing and resounding in harmony with the brush of my fingers like a well-tuned instrument, welcoming my rusty-stained caresses as a dearest friend might.

           Reader, I have no regrets. Even now I am carried away, but I care not, I care not, I care not. For none shall ever again read, as I have, the name of the universe, scrawled, scrawled, scrawled, on the bathroom wall.