Old West

Carlisle was the name of the town where I went to college. Situated between the winding roads that lead from Gettysburg to Harrisburg, at the foot of the blue haze of the Appalachian Mountains, Carlisle is a town of old trees and colonial houses lining brick streets. Bullets from the Civil War are lodged still within the stone walls of Old West, the original college building. Today the campus is bisected by the Main Street with its small boutiques, cafes, and pubs The KKK has a public demonstration in the square every spring, while the college assembles a peace protest to counter the display of white supremacy. The most gorgeous time of year to see Carlisle is autumn. Autumn is when the tall trees turn brilliant orange, red, yellow, and the leaves fall steadily between the historical buildings, almost like the snow that comes next, Old West being the focus on campus, a colonial, white stone building surrounded by walking paths and trees. Stairs lead to the two glass doors at the center, and the row of front windows always glow warmly into the darkness at night. Used as a school for the Indians before America was even chartered, as well as a hospital for soldiers in the Civil War, the stone walls of Old West are a record of over 300 years in American history. The boredom of small town life - hard liquor and beer the most popular entertainment – spurred me to seek some adventure. There had been rumors from the beginning: Janitors refused to be in Old West after dark, dead people were reported to haunt the rooms, the red carpet supposedly turned into a river of blood. Sophomore year, I worked up the courage with my first boyfriend to find out what was inside Old West at night. He brought a camera. I led the way up the side stairs and cracked open the door. It was quiet inside, except for the hum of the air conditioning vents as we walked. The carpet was a plush red and the white walls were decorated with framed paintings of the past college presidents, going further and further back in the decades and centuries of time. We paused to study their faces and dates. The doors to the main ceremony room had been left open, and stopping in the threshold, my boyfriend snapped several pictures of the half-lit space, complicated with shadows from the hanging crystal chandeliers and the tree branches outside. There was nothing out of the ordinary before our eyes and it seemed that no one else was in the building with us. We descended the opposite stairs down to the ground level, the level that had been most used for wounded and dying soldiers. Now there were no lights. We had only the moonlight to guide us along the hall. The doors to meetings rooms were closed, and we opened them one by one, peering into silence. The floor was completely silent; we only heard the shuffling sound of our steps. Holding hands now, we began to feel a little scared amid the darkness and the mustier smell of an old building that promised hauntings. He opened the last door at the end. Inside there was nothing except several tables and chairs. It was as he began to close the door that we heard something, a noise, a cough. My boyfriend looked at me. I looked at him. There it was again. A man’s cough inside the room with no one we could see. We both heard it loud and clear. Whoever he was, he was letting us know that we were not alone. We were not alone at all. It was enough to send us running down the hall and out the side door, back into the safety of the campus, not remembering if we ever closed the door to that room or not. And several days later, when he developed the pictures from the roll of film, in the main room of Old West were distinct white orbs floating through the open air. No carpets turned rivers of blood, but Old West is most definitely haunted.