We Let Ourselves In [Narrated]

No matter what you were studying at Wolves Poly, if you were male and living at Brinsford Lodge, you were also studying Applied Resonance. Not officially. But everyone learned it. At some point in its long and checkered history, someone had discovered that if you tapped just right—just the right frequency, just above the window latch—the catch would vibrate loose. Not a trick. Not a hack. A kind of sonic persuasion. Tap, pause, wait. The latch would slowly turn itself open, like it had changed its mind.

Each year, the technique was passed from seniors to freshmen. Not ceremoniously—just quietly, inevitably. And once one fresher had it, the rest did too.

Naturally, this led to a curriculum of additional learning: Improvised Engineering and Advanced Tomfoolery. Especially on weekends, when someone had gone home and their room sat there—unguarded, available, deeply tempting.

Once the latch yielded, it was just two quick bangs at the base—where the metal arm with its row of holes sat stubbornly against the frame. A well-placed knock and it would spring free, like it knew the drill. The window opened with a groan that felt almost performative. Then one person climbed in, tiptoed to the door, and let the rest of the cohort in like guests at a secret party.

The boldest innovations didn’t require an empty block—just an unattended room and a working knowledge of sockets. One guy came back late one Sunday, flipped on the light, and triggered a spin dryer that had been filled with gallons of water and plugged into the ceiling light socket. Instead of illumination: chaos. Water sprayed in every direction. The machine convulsed around the room like a drunk unicyclist. He found the plug. He did not find the joke funny.

Another time, Supersonic—so named not for his warplanes, which he built lovingly for a wargaming club in Wolverhampton, but for his Sid Little frame—returned to find his room gone. Not stolen. Reassembled. Every piece of it had been moved outside and pinned to the exterior wall of K Block. Bed made. Posters hung. Certificates framed. Pyjamas tucked. Slippers placed. A life-size diorama of his life, relocated with unsettling accuracy. He stood, assessed, and finally said: "It's the wrong side of the bed." Then went in.

It was every Sunday afternoon. That was when the mischief happened. When the building sighed, half-empty, and time bent just enough for absurdity to become logic. We were all eighteen or so. Which meant we thought we were subtle, but we were really just thorough. Clumsy in the way only sincerity can be.

Two weeks after the Kate-from-Kent incident, I hadn’t been plotting revenge. But when both Kevin and Paul went home for the weekend—Kevin, the party-starter Scouser, and Paul, the dry-witted Yorkshireman who had theatrically unveiled my embarrassment—it would’ve been rude not to accept the invitation.

Up until then, every operation had focused on one room. I wanted more. Not chaos. Just symmetry. So I doubled the stakes.

We cracked the windows in under ten minutes. At first, I worked alone. I expected someone to talk me down. Instead, they joined in. We formed a bucket line, passing each item across the corridor—bedframes, bins, desks, chairs. Posters were retacked. Socks re-sorted. Even the lightbulbs were swapped. We were careful, precise. It started to feel like a strange kind of honour.

Their doors faced each other. Mine was next to Paul’s. I didn’t even have to pretend not to watch.

Kevin returned first. We were all peeking through cracks as he stepped in, flipped on the light, and froze. Then backed out. Checked the number. Checked his key. Tried Paul’s room. Locked. Still blinking when the first laugh escaped. Then we all did. Kevin grinned. He got it. Like Supersonic, he saw initiation where others might see insult.

We didn’t get time to bask. Paul was close. A lookout whispered from the doorway. Doors shut. Radios off. Paul walked in. Paused. And sighed. “Of course,” he said.

Feeling the joke had peaked, we offered to restore order. And we did. We were nearly finished when we hit the wardrobe.

I can’t remember whose it was—whether we were moving Kevin’s back from Paul’s, or vice versa. But halfway through, Kevin stopped. White as a sheet. There, taped to the back panel: a strange, spindly illustration.

“That,” he said, voice low, “is a Black Mass.”

We stared. It wasn’t just squiggles or vague menace. There was a pentagon. Black candles. Symbols that didn’t feel made-up. Kevin, being a good Catholic lad, wasn’t having it.

“I can’t touch that,” he said. “It’s blasphemous.”

He wanted a priest.

It was half-nine on a Sunday.

We negotiated him down to Plan B. He pulled a small bottle from under his bed. Holy Water. Sprinkled it in corners. Over the desk. Around the doorframe. We watched. Something between ritual and release. A little clumsy, a little sincere. And as the last drops fell, his panic started to melt.

“It’s okay now,” he said.

We nodded. And no one ever mentioned the picture again.

After that, I don’t remember us doing it again. Or if we did, I wasn’t involved. Not because we got caught. Just because something shifted. The joke had landed. The spell had broken.

Better to leave it intact.

Let the corridor sleep.