The last warmth of summer lingered in the air, heavy and slow, yet beneath it threaded a sharper edge, a subtle chill that hinted at change. Leaves clung stubbornly to their branches, green and unyielding, while a few had loosened, spiraling down in lazy arcs before settling in brittle, whispering piles along the sidewalks. Each footstep cracked against the pavement, faint but oddly resonant, stretching the space between sound and silence, pulling attention toward what might be waiting in the shadows.
Evenings drew in earlier now, draping the campus in bruised purples. Shadows pooled beneath stoops and along dorm entrances, thickening in corners where the golden spill of window light barley reached. The hum of distant activity, laughter, a closing door, the faint scrape of shoes, dissolving quickly, leaving only the quiet, pregnant with anticipation. The campus itself seemed to inhale and hold its breath, aware of something just beyond perception.
It was in this delicate in-between, when summer hesitated and autumn prepared for its arrival, that the stories began to stir.
Stopher’s hallways bent in unexpected ways, shadows stretching unnaturally along the walls, lingering long after the light shifted. Chairs seemed to move slightly in empty rooms, flickering lights cast walls into motion, and a faint draft carried the impression of presence, never fully seen. In Allyn and Clark, the echos of children’s laughter threaded through empty rooms, soft, high-pitched, and persistent. Blankets shifted as if pulled by invisible hands, doors whispered open and closed, and the air trembled with the memory of long-past mischief. Koonce’s elevators, too, moved without summons, pausing at floors that had not been pressed, humming a low, deliberate note, as though listening for what was hidden in the basement.
Korb Hall, however, held a quieter, heavier presence. Its corridors exhaled a chill that seemed to seep into the skin, brushing along spines with an almost sentient touch. Stories persisted here, footsteps echoing in empty halls, doors swinging open without touch, cold spots pressing against walls. The tale of the woman who died in her fourth-floor room decades ago lingered in the faint whisper of the air. Her memory folded itself into the architecture, pressing against the air, brushing the edge of perception for those who walked the halls, leaving a trace impossible to ignore.
The scents of early fall hovered in the air; the earthy tang of damp leaves, the metallic bite of soil beneath them, the sweetness of cider waiting to be poured, and the faint smoke of distant firewood. Flannels brushed against arms that hadn’t yet shivered, carrying warmth in contrast to the chill curling around corners. Footsteps echoed differently, softer or heavier, deliberate or hesitant, magnified by the hushed stillness that seemed to thrum across campus.
Yet amidst it all was comfort. The warm glow of dorm windows spilling onto walkways, the soft rustle of leaves above, the shared memory of generations of students, tethering the present to the past. Even the ghosts, restless and patient, seemed entwined in that rhythm. They brushed against walls, trailed along corridors, lingered in shadows, arriving before leaves had fallen, before pumpkins lined windowsills, before Halloween cast its first dark shadows across the campus.
Fall had not yet arrived, but the air trembles with expectation, thick with memory, anticipation, and presence. The campus holds its secrets close, alive with echos of lives past and present. In the hush of evening, when shadows stretched just a fraction too long and the world seemed to hold its breath, the ghosts were awake, and the first whisper of fall had begun.