There is a stairwell that all the students avoid.
It is in one of the old humanities buildings, caught somewhere between 17th century romance and ancient tragicomedies. Like it is with all such places where the lights flicker, and where shadows dance of their own accord, stories spring up around it like wildflowers.
A particular favorite is that she was a freshman who had taken her studies a touch too seriously, and who had then taken her own life just a bit too eagerly; others swear that she was a graduate student who had been pushed down the whole flight of stairs, and that whoever had done it had left her there when she did not move – left her there for days and weeks and months, until her bones had sunk into the very concrete itself; some even whisper that she had been there long before the school itself, and that they had raised the nearby buildings to please her.
Unsuccessfully.
Whatever the truth was – if there ever was a truth to begin with – she is still there now. Upperclassmen are smart enough to avoid her stairwell whenever they can, even if it costs them precious minutes of class time. During the afternoon, when the sun is at its sharpest, there is a chill in the hall outside, and a draft blows constantly out from beneath the door though it should not. Most have learned to keep their footsteps light when they must pass, waiting until their gossip is fully outside of earshot before resuming.
But every so often, someone is running too late, and rather than waste any more time stumbling through the winding grounds, they would risk disturbing her. It is always as cold as winter inside, regardless of the time of year, and it echoes as though it were many times larger. Those who have passed safely through without incident never describe it in the same way. A church. A graveyard. A library. A crypt. A museum.
Sometimes, she is at the top of the staircase. Other times, at the bottom. And sometimes, at certain times of the day – perhaps when she has classes of her own to attend – she is not there at all. But there is always something. The faint footsteps of someone following too close behind, almost near enough to touch; the brush of arms against elbows, as though someone were walking up the stairs at the same time one was walking down; a melancholy sigh, and the lonely smell of someone lingering just beside; the cool breath of a long exhale against the back of exposed necks.
And sometimes – late at night – it is the sharp scratch of a shoe against concrete, the distant rustle of a dress, and then finally, the shy weight of a cold hand on your shoulder.
.
Originally published in UC Irvine New Forum, Spring 2018 Issue
