The Last Light in the East Wing

It was the autumn of my junior year, and I was visiting my girlfriend, Lena, at her university. She had been complaining of odd occurrences in her dormitory, the old East Wing of Hartwell Hall. Doors creaking open by themselves, the faint sound of a woman humming in the stairwell at night, and a cold spot in the common room that no one could explain. I was skeptical, a firm believer in the rational, but I couldn’t shake her unease. One evening, while Lena was video-chatting with her sister, her roommate, Priya, and I decided to investigate the top floor, which had been closed off for years due to ‘budget cuts’ and ‘structural issues.’

We didn’t know what we were doing, just cobbling together techniques from late-night ghost hunting shows and forums. Priya, a pragmatic pre-med student, was an unexpected partner, but her curiosity got the better of her too. She had a running joke that the only ghost she believed in was the one that haunted her GPA. Still, we prepared ourselves, whispering a prayer to Saint Michael, though I wasn’t sure who was listening. The prayer felt like a superstition, but the weight of it settled in my chest, and I noticed Priya’s lips moving too.

The top floor was a labyrinth of abandoned classrooms and forgotten office spaces. The air was thick with dust and the smell of old paper. We carried only a flashlight and my phone, the screen acting as a makeshift EMF detector. We walked through corridors where the lights flickered, casting long shadows that danced like figures. We came to a door marked ‘Study Room C’ and pushed it open. Inside, the room was surprisingly clean, as if it had been used recently, though the only furniture was a long oak table and a single chair facing a window that looked out onto the campus quad, now cloaked in early evening darkness.

As we stepped inside, we both felt it—a sudden drop in temperature that raised goosebumps on my arms. Priya’s breath fogged in the air, and the flashlight beam wavered. We exchanged a look, and I saw a flicker of genuine fear in her eyes, a crack in her composed exterior. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the hum of an old radiator in the corner. And then, we heard it: a soft, rhythmic scratching from inside the walls, like something was trying to get out.

I raised the flashlight, scanning the walls. The scratching stopped. Priya whispered, ‘Did you hear that?’ I nodded, my heart hammering. We moved closer to the wall, and I pressed my ear against the cold plaster. Nothing. But then, a voice—barely a whisper, yet distinct—spoke directly behind me. ‘You shouldn’t have come.’ I spun around, but the room was empty. Priya was at the door, her hand on the knob, her face pale. ‘We’re leaving,’ she said, and I was about to agree when the door slammed shut with a force that shook the frame.

We were trapped. The lights flickered and died, plunging us into pitch blackness. My flashlight flickered too, and I shook it, panic rising. The beam caught a figure standing at the window—a tall, gaunt woman in an old-fashioned dress, her face hidden in shadow. She raised a pale hand and pointed at us. Then, the humming started, the same tune Lena had described. It echoed through the room, seeming to come from all directions. The temperature plummeted further, and I could see the ghostly breath of the figure as she began to approach.

Priya screamed, and I pulled her back, fumbling with my phone for the light. The flashlight died, and we were left in near dark. The humming grew louder, filling my head, and I felt a cold hand on my shoulder. I turned, and the figure was inches from my face, its eyes—if it had them—were voids of empty space. It opened its mouth, and a sound like a thousand whispers poured out, saying my name, then Priya’s, then Lena’s. And then, the door burst open, and a light flooded in, blinding us.

It was Lena, holding a lantern, her face etched with worry. She grabbed us and pulled us out into the corridor. As we stumbled away, I looked back and saw the figure still at the window, watching us. The next day, we learned that the east wing had been the site of a tragedy decades ago. A teacher named Margaret Holloway had been found dead in that study room, having lived and taught there, but the official record said she had died of a broken heart. The humming, they said, was her favorite song, and she would sing it to the students she never had.

I recount this not to convince anyone of the supernatural, but because there is a truth that lies beyond the veil of explanation. We never returned to the east wing, but I often hear that humming in my dreams, a gentle lullaby that reminds me of what I saw. Lena laughs it off now, but Priya transferred the next semester. And I, who once denied the existence of spirits, now leave a light on in the dark, just in case Margaret Holloway is still looking for company in her last, lonely room.