Harvard students usually fear stolen laundry, getting quadded, coffee shortages in the dining hall, fire alarm tests in the dead of night, and the freshman flu. . If these are the only types of horrors you have experienced at Harvard, consider yourself lucky because campus is a much spookier place than most people think.
Harvard may be one of the most haunted places in greater Boston. With Halloween just around the corner, it is about time some of Harvard’s untold tales of horror are brought to light, because knowledge of which buildings and Houses to avoid venturing alone in at night might be what saves you. Here are a couple of campus ghost stories (based on true events) to remind students that things like midterms and clubs should be the least of their concerns this October.
The Haunting of Amy Lowell
You jolt awake. It’s 3 AM, the bedroom is chilly, and your roommate is sound asleep. There’s no clear indication of what disturbed your sleep. All you know is that you are now wide-awake and unable to slip back into the sweet soporific state. Restless, you get out of bed and grab your coat. You decide that a night-time stroll might be what you need to get yourself tired and ready to sleep again.
You descend three flights of stairs in a flurry and stumble out the door of your entryway. Outside, you enjoy the cool, crisp October air. You hear the door to your entryway close behind you with a resounding click, and the silence of the courtyard begins to echo in the empty air.
The chilliness of the night drives you into the warmth of the Lowell dining hall. The oblong tables seem to go on forever from where you are standing. The light from the kitchen casts a faint glow on the many portraits that decorate the flaxen-colored. The faces of former President Abbott Lawrence Lowell, his wife, his brother Percival Lowell, and his sister Amy Lowell stare back at you. As you saunter down the center aisle, all four sets of eyes follow you in unison .
You hear the faintest whisper. “Beloved, do you see those orange lilies?” It is the voice of a woman, gravelly. You whirl around. No one. Just you, the lemon-yellow walls, the portraits, and rows upon rows of empty chairs and tables. You catch the faint whiff of cigar smoke.
Someone is in the dining hall with you—watching, waiting.
How Long Have You Been a Freshman?
It’s approaching 1 AM when your roommate finally walks in the door. Judging from her wearied expression and the backpack slung across her shoulders, she is coming home from a late night at the library. As you begin to ask her how her studying is going, she interrupts you to ask whether you know a guy that lives on the floor below.
“What’s his name?”
“Hol,” she says.
“I don’t know him. Why?”
“I left my ID in our room, so I couldn’t get back into our dorm. I was going to text you to see if you were awake, but then through the window I see someone pacing up and down the hall of the first floor.”
She tries to take a deep breath to calm herself, but her words come out shaky.
“I knock on the door to get the man’s attention, and it works. This guy comes to the front door to let you in. You say thank you and are starting to head up the stairs to our room, but notice he’s pacing again. You ask him whether he needs you to call Securitas, but he gives you a confused look. You ask him what his room number is, and he says he doesn’t remember, which is odd because it’s already been two months since students have moved in. You ask him who his roommates are, and he says he doesn’t have any. Then you ask him how long he’s been waiting in the hallway, and he says since 1914.
You thought he was joking, but then he pulls out his Harvard ID: a battered, yellowing card, and right next to his name, ‘Holbrook Smith,’ is, ‘Class of 1919.’
Widener Willies
Goddamn it. You check the time on your laptop: 2:33 AM. You kick yourself for thinking you could pull off a power nap at your desk after sleeping only two hours the night before. It’s your first time seeing Widener Library after closing. The moonlight spilling from the large windows and onto the wooden floors.
You stand up from your chair, confused why the guards didn’t kick you out. You chalk it up to pity. You roam through aisles and aisles of books, leaf through their pages, and run your fingers across the oaken wood of their shelves. You have Widener all to yourself with no one to stop you. You pause in front of the portrait of Harry Elkins Widener, the renowned businessman and bibliophile whom the library was named after. You recall hearing that he died during the sinking of the Titanic and that his mother, Eleanor, built the library in his honor. Gazing into his portrait, you get the sense that Widener continues to live within the frame—that he might just shift his arm or blink at any second. You are so entranced by the realism of the portrait that you don’t hear the footsteps nor the mournful whimpers of a woman coming to see who has disturbed the peace of her son’s shrine. Lauren Hyomin Kim ’25 (lauren_kim@college.harvard.edu) is looking for horror movie recommendations.