STORIES ARE MONGRELS. It don't matter whether they were lightning-cut into stone or whispered over the crackle of a dying flame, no story in the world has pedigree. They've all been told and retold so many times that not God himself could tell you which one came first. Yes, every story in creation.

Including this one.

Especially this one.

You might have heard it before. There was a girl once. Her name was Sally. It could have been any other name, really. But let's go with Sally. It's solid. Round-hipped and stout, the kind of Midwestern name that can walk for hours and don't mind it much when the sun burns its skin red.

Anyway.

Sally was, maybe, about eighteen or nineteen, some freshman in a local college. And like every teenager, she sometimes got behind on her school work.

So one night, she took all her books and went down to her dormitory's basement, telling herself she'd study till the dawn brindled the sky in gold and claret.

Halfway through, she realized she'd forgotten a book. And back up she went, feet making no sound at all on the old carpet. (Was it thick? Yes. Lush like nothing else. It had to be, or what happened next would make no sense.) Silent, she padded along until she reached her room and opened the door.

Click.

It was black inside. No lights at all. The curtains were drawn. You couldn't see the glow of the distant town. But that was okay. Sally knew the room like the map of her palms. Slowly, she felt her way along the walls to her bed. Slowly, she realized—

There was a smell in the air: pennies and salt.

There was a sound in the air too: breathing, rasped and ragged, heavier than anything she's heard. Sally knew the beat of her roommate's breath. This wasn't it.

And maybe, she might have said something if it wasn't for the itching under her skin, something that whispered, "This wasn't alright."

So, Sally didn't. It was late and she was tired and it was probably just her imagination. Thus decided, she got what she needed and clicked the door shut behind her as she left, just as something began to drip, drip, drip.

"Damn faucet," she mumbled as she swayed back down to the basement.

The next day, Sally went for her exams. How did she do? Truthfully, it don't plain matter. She took her examinations and then she went home, feet crunching across dried autumn leaves and cobbled stones.

Into the dormitory she went, and then up the spiral staircase, unease leaving its way down her spine. There were far too many people out and about, their faces bright and afraid, but that wasn't Sally's problem, no sir.

Someone else could go worry about that. All she wanted was to sleep.

Sleep wasn't on the cards, though. Hell, I don't know if she ever slept again. I know I wouldn't be able to. Because when Sally finally walked all the way to her room, pushing past co-eds in their flower-printed pyjamas, she found police tape and policemen.

And a smell in the air: pennies, salt, a stink of dried urine and shit.

And a sound in the air: a drip drip dripping, oozing between the noise of the walkie-talkies.

And a sight like nothing anyone should see: her roommate, cut up like beef, words scrawled on the wall above her head.

"Aren't you glad you didn't turn on the lights?"

That's the popular version.