Squeaky Screen Door

Austin Price, Editor in Chief

Sound. It engulfs us. It overwhelms us. It excites us. It terrifies us.  

Hearing. A sense we have. A sense we experience. A sense that can be euphoric. A sense that can be torturous.  

Our ability to hear sound, a gift we are given upon joining the Earth, is both a blessing and a curse. We enjoy the perception of noise. The elongated waves of reverberation. The distant resonations of whispers in the dark.  

Like secrets shared at a sleepover, we digest the sounds of words, slithering off our tongues, and relish the hot air that touches our flesh, while we receive this sacred information.  

The same as many other things, sound can manifest differently. It can be soothing. It can be abrasive. The translation of vibrations into intricate, technicolor stories, all of which can produce varying interpretations.  

Some sounds we crave. Like the sound of an innocent child’s laughter, as they encounter the world before them, without the bruising of reality pummeling their complexion.  

Some sounds we dread. Like the screams of an inhuman killer. Their sadistic screeching, covering the pain of their prey.  

Some sounds we ignore. Like the background clamor of the TV, as commercials break up our preferred, comfort content.  

Some sounds we unconsciously acknowledge. Like the irritating, disturbing plop of water, dripping down from a leaky pipe into a large bucket.  

Despite the physiological hassle of these copious sounds, we accept their existence. Why? 

Because all the sounds above are things we can see. Things that can be recognized by our other senses. Maybe we see them, maybe we smell them, maybe we even touch them. Regardless, there is more than one sense activated by these sounds, ensuring our sanity and encouraging further curiosity.  

But what about the sounds that we can’t identify? The sounds that have seemingly no correlation with actions. The sounds that are not produced by visible objects. The sounds that are abstract from our distinguished reality. How do we explain those?  

Some things cannot be explained. Some sounds cannot be interpreted. Some noises cannot be replicated. Some experiences cannot be proven.  

But what if I told you there was a way to prove these unusual circumstances are apparent to me? Would you believe me?

Unoiled hinges, rusted metal, brittle materials.  

The squeaky screen door serves as an extra barrier between the haven of a home, and the wickedness of the wild.  

It’s strategically positioned to help prevent unwanted visitors from the outside. Insects, rodents, and other small, unfavorable travelers.  

The door serves multiple facets. It personifies the function of other, more elegant household appliances. It acts as a ventilator, welcoming fresh air through its woven squares of mesh, vinyl overlapping vinyl. It provides the benefit of a window. A view to the predators of the world, with a protective lace draped in front of potential prey.  

This squeaky screen door acts as a mediator between the inside and the out. It provides a sense of serenity and neutrality amongst opposing forces, the delightful, and the deadly.  

As time passes, and as things age, changes are made. Parents grow older, children grow wiser. Updates are made, and revisions are emboldened.  

Despite the natural time travel and unavoidable aging of those we love, the squeaky screen door remains the same. It still squeaks upon opening and closing. Its vinyl mesh still stretches taut across the frame, albeit with more scuff marks than before. The spider web of overlying material still lets the outside world peek through, but with more ferocity than before, because of the black substance fading to gray from the strain of constant sunlight.  

The squeaky screen door is a witness to the actions within the home. It watches the parents sit on the couch. Sipping red wine from sleek glasses after a long day at work. 

It watches the children argue as they roughhouse on the floor, an attack completed with hair pulling and constant teasing. 

It watches the grandparents, when they come to visit, as they sit with hands folded, critiquing the mother’s decorative style.  

It has watched the highs and the lows of the family. 

It has served as a witness to great victories, such as when the children proudly showed artwork they made at school, as intentional gifts and keepsakes for their parents to display for years to come.  

It has watched the joy spread across children’s faces when a new family member is introduced. A golden retriever puppy with floppy ears, silky fur, and high-pitched yelps, waiting to turn into echoing barks of warning.  

It has watched the parents enjoy a night away from the kids. Two lovers holding one another, gently swaying to silent sounds of music in the family room.  

It has served as a witness to the great moments, the cherished memories, and the irreplaceable encounters of the family.  

With such a catalog of joyous entertainment, the squeaky screen door patiently observes. It waits for the inevitable moment of a tainted sound, of a sneaky shadow, of an unsettling interaction that the family is not prepared for. 

While a menagerie of happiness and excitement normally perform for the screen door, one night, the unexpected occurs and the act is changed.

The night began like it always does, the soft shades of dusk permeating the room with a haze of sleepiness settling into the home. Suddenly, the mother and father, once tender lovers, come storming in. The man shouts at his wife, venomous anger seeping into a menagerie of cruel verbiage. Meanwhile, the woman cowers beneath her husband. The man that once vowed to protect her, strikes her with the hand that bears his wedding ring. Oblivious to her cries, the man continues his attack on the woman, eventually leaving her abandoned on the floor, with bruises blossoming over her bodice. Purple and blue splotches that require a masquerade of makeup to conceal.  

The woman collects herself, picking her broken body off of the floor and straightening out her now wrinkled clothes.  

As all women do, she composes herself after facing extreme cruelty, prepared to proceed with her evening as usual. Like nothing is wrong, like nothing ever happened. 

As she stands, the woman hears the signature sound of the squeaky screen door. She looks up, nervous that her former protector is back to continue his punishment. However, when her eyes look up from under her tangled hair, nothing is there.  

The squeaky screen door has not moved. The latch is still fastened, the lock is still in place, and the door is still completely shut, despite the verbal cue of opening it produced before.  

The battered woman walks closer to the door, trying to convince herself that she is hearing things. Hearing things she cannot see.  

She has nearly reached resolution from the abnormal experience when she approaches the door and rests her hand on screen. She drags her hand across the scratchy material, letting the familiar coolness of the door comfort her aching body, when suddenly, her hand falls through the door.  

The woman looks up and sees that her hand has pushed through the screen door entirely. She jerks away quickly, shaking her hand out and bringing it into her chest. 

Upon the extraction of her hand, she examines the door. Her eyes graze over the zig-zagged mesh and parades consistent stitching, until the place her hand went through the durable material. The hole in the mesh matched the shape of her fist perfectly.  

Despite this unexplainable event, the woman’s curiosity quickly permeates fear. Fear that her husband will enter, and the unintentional damage she has done. Fear that she will once again meet the brutality of his fist, and the volatility of his temper.  

Quickly and efficiently, the woman grabs her sewing kit and stitches the screen door back together with thin black thread. Her swollen fingers collide with one another, in her haste to repair the door, before her husband sees. As she finishes tying the knot, she hears her husband entering from the kitchen. She grabs her items and goes to hide in the bathroom before he can see her kneeling before the damaged door.  

Her husband storms in, one hand on his hip, the other holding his cigarette. The stench of nicotine threatens to overwhelm the senses, by coating the room with its fumes. However, the squeaky screen door ventilates the smoke, leaving the room smelling as dry and painful as before.  

After a few more puffs, the man opens the door, automatically wincing at the door’s signature squeak, and throws his cigarette outside, putting it out with the toe of his work boot. He stands outside for a moment, looking at the backyard of the home he and his wife, now his victim, have built together. With a long sigh and the shake of his head, he turns back to the doorway ready for it to engulf him in the safety of the house.  

As he turns around and steps forward, he bumps into the screen door head on. The door is closed. The man pushes his face into the mesh, trying to see the culprit. Trying to see the one who shut him outside. His eyes scan the empty room, and he comes to a quiet resolve that he must’ve shut the door behind him and simply forgot.

As the man steps back, and prepares to enter the house successfully, he notices a circular burn in the mesh. The shape and size of a cigarette burn, this dark hole ominously settles right where the man’s chest pushed into the door when he initially tried to enter.  

The man grazes his fingers across the mesh, and drags his hand across the scratchy material, letting the familiar coolness of the door comfort his aching heart. When he pinpoints the spot of the burn, he lets his fingers linger on the ashy splotch. A silent moment of reflection, shame, and pity settles over the man as he pulls his grimy finger away from the burn, opens the door, and heads inside.  

Later that night, as the former lovers lay on opposite sides of the bed, backs to one another, the eldest child, the only daughter, slips down the stairs. With hair pulled back, high heels on, and keys and phone in hand, the daughter prepares to make her daring escape, sneaking out without her parents' permission.  

Moving intently and silently, the girl goes to the screen door, ready to make her exit without triggering the motion sensored lights in the front of the house by avoiding the main entrance.  

The girl prepares to open the screen door, while applying pressure upwards on the door, to lessen the volume of squeakiness she knows is inevitable. Despite this obstacle, the girl is not worried about getting caught. Both her parents are asleep, and their golden retriever puppy, now a deaf old dog, will not hear her leave, he hasn't before.  

The girl begins to lift and push the door, when suddenly, a blood curdling shriek emits from the door. She jumps back away from the door, as if it has a disease and looks around to see if she has awoken the house. 

Upon assessing her surroundings, the girl turns back to try and open the door again. As she does, she feels a weight on her right foot. She peeks down to see the old golden retriever, sitting on her leg, preventing her from leaving. Apparently, this deaf old dog can still learn some new tricks and could hear her attempted escape.  

Accepting defeat, and realizing she won’t be going out tonight, the girl looks down at the dog and pats his head. The dog, content with his victory in keeping his human safe from the sinister world, pants and looks up at his owner with unwavering loyalty and ultimate adoration.  

Resolving to head back to bed, the girl begins to turn back into the house, and walk upstairs, back to bed. The dog follows her. Tail swishing with content. As she reaches the staircase, the girl is startled by another shriek from the squeaky screen door.  

She whips her head around to the door, expecting to see an intruder. However, nothing is there.  

The girl scrambles for her phone, and clicks on the flashlight app, shining it at the screen door. Once again, no one was there. However, upon closer inspection, the girl notices claw marks through the mesh. Deep, thick scratches mutilate the mesh and disfigure the fabric against the tight frame.  

These marks are too big, and too deep to be from a human. They’re too long and too jagged to be from a machine.  

Keeping her flashlight on the screen’s scratches, the girl walks closer to the door, once again, with her faithful pup padding behind her. As she reaches the door, she places her hand on the marks, and drags her hand across the scratchy material, letting the familiar coolness of the door comfort her aching soul. 

As her fingers trace the edges of the scratch marks, the dog erupts with a low growl, rumbling deep in his throat. The girl flings her hand away and looks at the dog, whose eyes are boring into the scratched screen door. The girl stands up, links her fingers under the dog's collar, and leads him up the stairs to her bedroom.  

The next morning, as the different family members traipse down the stairs, all of them stop and take a long look at the screen door. There is no hole in the shape of a fist, with no handmade stitching repairing it. There is no smudge of ash or sign of a cigarette burn in the center. There are no long scratches, or frayed edges at the ends. The squeaky screen door stands untouched, with all marks of pain completely erased.  

The last member of the family, the youngest son, was the only one protected from the ear-piercing sounds of the squeaky screen door. He trots through the living room, excited to run outside and play. The rest of his family observes his innocence and longs to have the same pure joy in life as he does. 

Their jealousy and wonder grow even more when the boy opens the squeaky screen door and runs outside. All while in complete silence. 

A Review of Adams Mystery Playhouse

Austin Price, Editor in Chief

Located off Federal Boulevard, just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Downtown Denver, a building that’s both haunting and enchanting stands looming over the road, peeking above the trees. With its intimidating size and neon sign in the shape of a magnifying glass, Adams Mystery Playhouse sits above the chaos of the street and creates an air of mystery and magic. Adams Mystery Playhouse is Denver's longest running interactive comedy murder mystery dinner show, and Denver’s only full-time comedy murder mystery dinner theater. At the Playhouse, guests help solve humorous murder mysteries over a formal dinner, at a mansion that was once used as a mortuary. 

The bright, neon sign advertises an experience that’s both haunting and humorous. Photo by Austin Price 

As a lover of all things murder, mystery, macabre, and magic, I chose Adams Mystery Playhouse as the signature activity to celebrate my birthday, several weeks ago. While this may seem like an unusual choice for many, it proved to be quite a hit for me and my family. I think this is a pretty big win, considering I come from a family of anxious introverts with social issues.  

Our evening began with a comical and friendly welcome from one of the owners, as we were ushered inside, away from the rain. Upon entering, we were greeted by antique furniture, dusty books, and floral patterns lining the walls. 

The walls of the house demonstrate the classic, elegant feel of Victorian architecture. Photo by Austin Price  

As we walked through the mansion, it was clear that the owners of the building understood the importance of blending classic creepiness with modern monsters. Contemporary Halloween decorations scattered the different rooms, adding an air of holiday horrors onto the elegant ambience of eclectic furnishings.  

A motion sensored Halloween statue stands before vintage, red curtains. Photo by Austin Price 

The layout of the mansion reflected the initial designs of old buildings. A plethora of secret rooms, hidden doors, and small passageways could be found throughout the different halls and on the different levels of the building. Personally, I would love to own this house, simply to host a legendary game of Hide and Seek.  

An unassuming bookshelf doubles as a hidden door. Photo by Austin Price  

While the entire building and the interior decorations were wildly impressive, I must say that my favorite part of this haunted estate was the grand staircase. Made with oak wood and engraved with carvings made by hand, the staircase is a signature piece of the home’s iconic vibe. Me, being my weird self, had a full on, Morticia Adams / Madame Leota moment when coming down the stairs. A huge shoutout to my brother, Alex, for capturing this moment on camera.  

Me living out my dream of being a wealthy hostess in a haunted house. Photo by Alex Price

After exploring the nooks and crannies of the house, we were led to the main space, The Adams Room. With a ballroom type setup, the Adams Room was filled with wooden chairs and tables, expertly navigated by efficient waiters as they served the audience. At the front of the room was the stage, set and ready to host the evening’s performance, Murder at Haunted Blood Mansion.  

The curtain has risen, and the actors are set. Photo by Austin Price  

The show began, and in a pleasant surprise, the team formerly seen as the waitstaff became the show’s performers. They embodied a variety of characters, each with their own peculiarities and over-the-top personalities. The actors blended the direction of their scripts with their improvisational skills into an expert performance.  

Something unique about this production was the immense amount of audience participation that was incorporated into the show. Audience members had direct interactions with the actors, helping them make each performance uniquely suited to the audience. As attendees of the show, we were given clues, cue cards, and background knowledge to build our predictions for the result of the case. Without giving away any spoilers, my team, fondly declared as “Austin’s Angels” predicted the criminal correctly, and sufficiently solved the whodunnit. 

Fueled by a well-stocked bar, fine dinner, electric cast, and an enthusiastic audience, Adams Mystery Playhouse presented a fabulous evening of investigation, laughter, and spookiness in their production of Murder at Haunted Blood Mansion. Upon leaving the event, my family informed me that we needed to attend another show at the Playhouse, and we needed to do so soon. So, I highly recommend a night of murder, magic, and madness at Adams Mystery Playhouse. Whether it’s a family excursion, date-night activity, or a holiday celebration, the Playhouse promises an experience like no other that feeds our spooky selves and satisfies our scary souls.  

Click here to learn more about Adams Mystery Playhouse

Regis University's Haunted History

Austin Price, Editor in Chief

It’s my favorite time of year. The leaves are falling, the air is blowing, and the skies are gray. Yes, that’s right everyone, it’s Spooky Season! Some of you might remember that last year, I brought you a special section of ghosts, ghouls, and all ghastly things. This was the Spooky Series. Because I had so much fun reading, research, and reporting on some of the most unhinged, unsettling, and overall insane Halloween content last year, I figured I’d continue the trend of scaring my parents and worrying my friends about my Halloween obsession. And so, it is with great excitement and misplaced enthusiasm that I introduce part two of my Spooky Series! We are kicking it off with a look into the legends and lore of our very own school, Regis University. I present to you Regis University’s Haunted History.  

Since my freshman year at Regis, I have heard the superstitions and secrets surrounding the so-called “hauntings” of this university. As we all know, gossip and the passing on of supposed true stories can be easily misconstrued. But we also know that journalism is mainly organized gossip, so I’ve dissected and evaluated the most popular spooky stories. Our story begins in the potentially the most recognizable and iconic piece of architecture on campus, the Main Hall.  

Main Hall’s Haunted Walls 

Main Hall is one of Regis’ biggest, and most famous buildings. With its orange bricks, iconic bell tower, and overall aura of “fancy university” Main Hall serves as a host for classes, office of several Regis leaders, and overall tourist trap for prospective students. However, despite its outward appearance, legend has it that Main Hall has a deeply disturbing secret hiding literally within its walls.  

According to old Regis records and archives from The Highlander, the spirits sleep in an abandoned storage room. While it seems to be an unthreatening, non-imposing space, a hidden storage room, buried deep in the crevices of this massive building, serves as storage for a wall of spirits. The storage room has cracks in the plaster sides that reveal a layer of brick walls and a line of tombstones of deceased Jesuits. 

While I personally have yet to experience this, past visitors to this unusual room have reported hearing loud humming sounds, with vibrations rattling the old pipes of the ancient building. Other reported physical sensations include excessive sweating, flushed faces, and tightened chests. As far as we know, this room is still accessible to the public, for those who dare to enter.  

 Creepiness in Carroll  

Now largely used as a host for faculty offices and conference spaces, Carroll Hall is said to house one spirit with an ax to grind. In the former student newspaper of Regis University, The Brown and Gold, the specific attack on a room in Carroll Hall is examined.  

According to The Brown and Gold, “the third-floor Language House in Carroll Hall was ransacked by someone or something that replaced furnishings with items one would associate with a scholar or scientist”. This room initially served as a study for Rev. Armand Forstall, S.J., who has since passed. Apparently, the good old reverend wasn’t so revered and rather, came back with a raging vendetta. The Brown and Gold reports that “In a letter that’s supposedly from the culprit, the ghost of the late Rev. Armand Forstall, S.J., claimed responsibility for the vandalism, saying ‘no one has the right to make a language lounge out of my study’.”  

Rev. Armand Forstall, S.J. was clearly very defensive of his research and his scientific findings. His haunting is believed to be related to his death in 1948, when his scientific work was lost. Rumor has it that the reverend won’t find peace until his work is found. Personally, I think this ghost needs to get over it. Times change, people change, uses for different rooms change, etc. But that’s just me. Good luck to all the faculty members in Carroll. Please be sure to save all research on Word, that way we don’t have another issue like this.  

 Jack and the Jesuits  

As a student who has witnessed a medical emergency take place and had to call for help on campus, this next story bothered me a bit more than the others. It’s no surprise that unexpected medical phenomena take place, and while we always hope for the best, sometimes an emergency response is not enough to save a person in distress. Unfortunately for a student named John J. “Jack” McDonnell, this situation became a grim reality.  

On a bright, seemingly normal May afternoon in 1900, former student Jack McDonnell walked out of his class in Main Hall and headed north across the campus towards what is now known as the gym. Throughout his afternoon stroll, Jack met a tragic fate when, just north of Main Hall, Jack collapsed. According to archives in the Dayton Memorial Library, attempts to save Jack’s life were valiantly carried out. “Distraught classmates rushed to his side and Rev. Modestus Izaguirre, S.J., who was nearby, knelt beside Jack, trying to revive him, but soon realized all he could do was offer absolution,”. 

According to the College Diary, Jack “died between the Main Hall and Gym at 3:20 p.m. The cause was a violent hemorrhage from the lungs. In five minutes, it was all over.”  Quickly thereafter, the school’s physician, Dr. James Devlin, arrived and promptly pronounced Jack dead at the scene. Dr. Devlin claimed that even if he had gotten there earlier, there was “simply nothing” he could have done to save the boy. After Jack’s death and following extensive investigation, the College Diary noted that he had “weak lungs,” and had been sick a month before his death.   

Two days later, on May 12, 1900, John J. “Jack” McDonnell became the first, and only, student to be buried in Regis’ cemetery. This cemetery was officially dubbed “Regis' Little Cemetery of the Jesuits” and is stationed east of where St. Peter Claver, S.J., Hall stands now. While he may be the only student buried there, Jack is certainly not alone in the ground on Regis campus. Regis’ Little Cemetery of the Jesuits is also the final resting place for 43 Jesuit priests. 

While none of the above stories have been officially proven real, meaning no professional paranormal investigation has ever been done on campus, I firmly believe that there are spirits with us at Regis. My belief stems from a deep connection to my Catholic faith, religious values, and overactive imagination. Now that you know the stories, I encourage you all to go to these places on campus and see what you experience. While none of these spirits are ever described as “evil” or “harmful” I still recommend bringing along some Holy Water, and a positive and respectful attitude. Curiosity is good, but when investigating such powerful stories, please, proceed with caution.  

Frighteningly Disappointing: The 13th Floor Haunted House Review

By: Madelynn Loring, Staff Writer

According to USA Today, the 13th Floor Haunted House in Denver is one of the 5 best haunted houses in the country. However, nowadays, the 13th Floor seems to be blown out of proportion by its reputation and hampered by it. Even on a Monday night, groups spend only a fifth of the time inside the attraction as they do waiting in line, and parking costs just as much as an extra ticket as the streets were lined with parked cars for three blocks in every direction. That being said, should you go to this event, be sure to arrive on time or even early to your scheduled ticket time to save yourself the one to two hours spent in line. Also, be sure to have $20 cash for parking and a good deal of patience to work through the crowds, traffic, and remarkably condescending and aggressive lot attendants. 

These setbacks are simply the reality of popular events, however the 13th Floor, at least as it is now, is not worthy of the hype it has received. Tickets, even on their slowest nights, are oversold, and, in an attempt to keep the massive line moving and maximize profits, groups are funneled in one after another and, as a result, the element of surprise required in any thrilling and successful haunted house is lost. You are forced by the staff to enter on the heels of the group in front of you. Thus, the jump scares and shocks are lost as the actors struggle to time their appearances between groups.

Regardless, the ambiance and costuming of the 13th Floor Haunted House is impressive. It’s loud, overstimulating, and visually inordinate: everything you could ask from a haunted house experience. The use of lighting, staging, and other technical elements is phenomenal and, if not for the rushed and crowded audience, would be completely and totally immersive. 

I did have fun at the 13th Floor, but the people with whom you spend your haunted house experience have a much greater impact on your enjoyment than the attractions itself. Despite the 13th Floor’s raving reviews, it may be a better use of your time and money to go somewhere less eminent to get an entirely immersive and honestly thrilling experience.