The Last Box of Ribbons

The snow had been falling since dusk, a relentless, muffling blanket that turned the campus of Meridian College into a white void. I was a junior, living in an off-campus apartment, but I had a key to the old arts building, Dearing Hall, where I worked as a night janitor. It was the week before winter break, and the building was almost empty, save for a few frantic students finishing final projects.

My girlfriend, a sophomore named Rachel, was a music major, and she had a recital the next day. She’d left her sheet music in the practice room on the fourth floor, and she called me that night, her voice tense, asking if I could grab it for her. She had a key to the main entrance, but the side door from the parking lot was propped open for the cleaning crew. She said she’d leave it cracked for me.

The storm was brutal. The wind howled through the bare trees, and the snow stung my face as I trudged across the quad. Dearing Hall loomed ahead, an old Gothic structure of dark brick and gargoyles, its windows like hollow eyes. I pulled open the heavy oak side door, stepped into the musty warmth, and let it click shut behind me.

The hallway was dimly lit by a few flickering fluorescent tubes. The air smelled of dust, old paper, and something else—a faint, sweet rot, like decaying flowers. I’d always found that smell unsettling, but I’d never been able to place it. I made my way past the rows of empty classrooms, my footsteps echoing on the worn linoleum.

Rachel’s practice room was on the fourth floor, at the end of the east corridor. I took the stairs, the old steps groaning under my weight. On the landing of the second floor, I saw something out of the corner of my eye: a flicker of movement, a pale shape, but when I turned, the corridor was empty. I shook it off, blaming my imagination.

The third floor was the realm of the art department. The walls were lined with student paintings, most of them dark and moody, some disturbingly abstract. As I passed a display case, I noticed a box of old ribbons—first-place ribbons from a decades-old oratory contest, their once-bright colors faded to pastels. They seemed out of place, a relic of a bygone era.

I continued upward. The fourth floor was quieter, the lights dimmer. The practice rooms were small, soundproofed cubicles, each with a piano and a music stand. Rachel’s was at the end, number 412. I tried the door; it was unlocked. I pushed it open.

The room was cold, colder than the hallway. The sheet music sat on the piano, right where she said it would be. As I reached for it, I noticed a figure in the corner—a woman in a long, old-fashioned dress, her back to me. She was motionless, as if made of wax. My heart froze. I blinked, and she was gone.

I grabbed the music and hurried back the way I came. I didn’t want to be in that building a moment longer. But as I reached the main staircase, I heard a faint, melodic humming coming from below. It was a waltz, sweet and mournful. I peered down the stairwell, but saw only the dim landing.

I ran. I was near the side door when I saw the box of ribbons again, but now it was on the floor, its contents spilled—a cascade of faded colors, like dead petals. And then I noticed the door I’d come in through was ajar, letting in a gust of frozen air.

I rushed out into the night, snow biting my cheeks. I didn’t stop until I was back in my apartment, the music clutched to my chest. Rachel called later, asking if I got it. I said I did. I didn’t tell her what I’d seen.

That night, I dreamt of the woman. She was young, with dark hair, and she was dancing alone in a ballroom, ribbons in her hair. She stopped and looked at me, and her lips moved, but I couldn’t hear the words. I woke with a start, the scent of decay heavy in the air.

The next morning, I heard on the news that a body had been found in the walls of Dearing Hall during a renovation. It was a woman in a long dress, a student from the 1920s, killed accidentally during a fire drill, her remains bricked in by mistake. They found her with a box of ribbons, the ones she’d won at an oratory contest the night before.

I didn’t attend Rachel’s recital. I couldn’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see her, standing in that practice room, humming that waltz. And I know that she’s still there, waiting for someone to retrieve her last performance. But no one ever will.