The writers claim that “the following account is completely factual in all regards,” but in today’s news climate, who are we to tell you what to believe.

Dec. 2, 2023. 03:24. East Hall.

They had heard the whispers around campus: a lithe form slipping through Kratz doorways; a furry shadow cast down the darkened halls of the admin building. 

Campus Safety had warned the residents of East Hall that they had nothing to fear, but that was little reassurance.

Johann-Pieter, laying in bed, knew who it was before he opened his eyes. He felt its laser-like furry stare on him as he slipped into consciousness from a deep sleep. Holding back the fear threatening to turn his stomach, he read the nodules of poo carefully arranged on the floor: I am Tim Mar-vole-o Griddle. 

He knew this would be the start of a long, dangerous battle. 

Jan. 10, 2024. 17:34. East Hall.

The creature watched from above the cupboards, biding his time. 

Over winter break he had ripped his soul into seven pieces. His nose had morphed into snake-like slits. His eyes burned blood red, rivaling the lasers in the physics lab. He felt his rage grow as he watched Ike stir his ramen on the stove. 

How dare he cook, happy and oblivious to the evil in his midst? 

The creature scuttled up Ike’s pant leg, through the sleeve of his purple hoodie, and stopped just as his whiskers brushed Ike’s right earlobe. “Je m’appelle Vole d’Mort,” he whispered, and scurried back into his lair. 

Suddenly smelling something rancid, Ike turned towards the fridge and saw that all of the cheese had molded. Ike shivered, a chill rippling down his spine. 

This was the beginning of the end. 

Jan. 27, 2024. 24:00. East Hall.

The East Hall students were weary from living in fear. For days they had awoken to find their homework shredded by tiny talons, and worse — their smoked gouda and aged cheddar covered in rodent turds. 

They prepared for battle, assembling every weapon possibly allowed on a Mennonite college campus: Nerf guns, ping pong paddles and pickleball rackets. 

Vole d’Mort lurked in the laundry vent, biding his time. 

Jan. 29, 2024. 18:06. East Hall. 

Vole d’Mort made the first move. 

Ike and Josie returned from a hard day at work to find a fort erected in their closet. The laundry basket was turned on its side, and piles of dirty socks formed an impenetrable barricade. In the middle of the fort sat Vole d’Mort. 

“Je vous ai attendu,” he said. “I have been anticipating your arrival, mes petits choux.” He lazily twirled a matchstick in one paw, fashioned in a wand of sorts.

After a moment, Josie seemed to regain his voice. “Guys, lil’ bro’s back!” he sputtered.

With the sound of twenty Dashes falling out of a tree, Johann-Pieter, Hana and Moira crashed into the room wielding cardboard boxes. 

Vole d’Mort just laughed. “Do you believe that a mere cardboard box would hinder moi? STUPEFY!” 

Instantly, all four students hit the ground in a deep torpor.

Jan. 29, 2024. 18:09. East Hall. 

Josie was the first to reawake. Confused, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. His gaze landed on the pile of laundry, now devoid of vole. “He’s gone!” 

The students leapt up, dissecting forgotten text books and Pop-Tart wrappers, looking for the vermin.

Suddenly, Moira froze, her eyes wide with terror. In front of her stood Vole d’Mort, wand raised. In a fluid motion, Moira slammed the box over the furry form, trapping him inside. “Quick Hana! The racket!” 

Hana jammed the pickleball racket under the box, caging Vole d’Mort in. 

A feral scream emanated from the darkness, as Vole d’Mort realized that he had been trapped.

Jan. 29, 2024. 18:14. Forbidden Music Center Prairie.

The East Hall residents triumphantly marched the box into the deep, dark depths of the Forbidden Music Center Prairie, where they knew no soul had tread in many, many years. 

Moira gingerly opened the box, and Vole d’Mort dove out, front flipping towards the ground. “I shall return, mes cheris. Count on it.”

Goshen College, be warned. Vole d’Mort will surely return. Be prepared.