There is a stairwell that all the students avoid.
It is in one of the humanities buildings, lost somewhere between 18th century Italian poetry and Greek tragicomedies. Like it is with all such places where the lights blur and shadows dance of their own accord, stories spring up around it like wildflowers.
A favorite of the student body is that she was a freshman who had taken her studies a touch too seriously, and who had taken her own life just a little too eagerly. Others swear that she was pushed down the entire flight of stairs, and that whoever had done it had simply left her there when she did not move; left her there for days and weeks and months, until her bones and her anger sank into the concrete itself. Some even whisper that she had been there long before the school itself, and that they had raised the buildings in the forest clearing to please her. Whatever the truth is – if there ever was a truth to begin with – she is still there now.
Most students are smart enough to avoid her stairwell whenever they can, even if it costs them precious minutes of class time. Even during the day, with the afternoon sun at its zenith, there is a chill in the hall just outside. A draft blows out constantly from beneath the sill, like a lonely exhale, though it should not. Students have learned to keep their footsteps light and their conversation hushed when they pass by her door, wisely waiting until their gossip is firmly out of earshot before resuming.
But every so often, someone is running late, and rather than waste any more time running through the labyrinthine halls, they would risk disturbing her.
It is always as cold as wintertime inside, regardless of the season, and it echoes as though it were many times larger. Those few who have passed through without incident have never described it the same way twice.
A church. A graveyard. A library. A crypt. A museum. A bedroom.
Sometimes, she is at the top of the stairs. Other times, 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 there.
The faint footsteps of someone following close behind, almost near enough to touch. The brush of cold arms against elbows, as though someone were walking up the stairs at the same time one were walking down. A melancholy sigh, and the lonely lavender smell of someone standing just beside. The cool breath of a long exhale against the back of exposed necks. And sometimes, late at night — when the deliberate, crawling shadows are thickest — it is the sharp scratch of a shoe against concrete, the rustle of a dress, and finally, the weight of a cold hand on a shoulder.