Bennington's Spookiest Stories
A misty figure floating beyond the end of the world. The eerie sounds of pianos streaming from Jennings practice rooms with no one at the keys. The spine-chilling feeling of eyes watching you from the woods.
What comes to mind when you think of the seasonal thinning of the veil? Alumni share their original non-fiction account of hauntings at Bennington, micro fiction, and poetry about the spooky side of autumn. Read if you dare.
A Winter Night in Dewey
by Katie '15
As a house chair, I returned to campu
s a little earlier than everyone each term to get the house ready. My co-chair Brittany and I were in the Dewey common room late one night before the start of the spring term, making door signs for our housemates. It was late and dark and cold. We were alone in the house.
Deep in glue and glitter, we heard a noise from upstairs. Live in these houses long enough and you know the sound of a drawer closing, a foot falling. What we heard was a drawer opening slowly, then slamming shut. Brittany and I made eye contact, but carried on. Surely it’s nothing; we’re the only ones here!
A few moments later, we realized we were not alone. Distinct footsteps ran across the upstairs hall above us, fast.
Brittany and I dropped our craft supplies and bolted across the street to Swan.
The Dewey ghost made themselves known to me a few more times, but this was the scariest.
A "Sort Of" True Ghost Story
by Carol '63
In the spirit of Halloween I would like to share this recent happening in our generator business:
An elderly lady in Louisa, Virginia, was certain that her house was haunted and was afraid to go home! Lights had allegedly been cutting off and back on sporadically when no power outage or activity from her generator was present. However, her son was less convinced. He suspected that a more earthly process might be in play, so he called our tech Gary to check the generator. On Gary's arrival all was fine with the lights, and the generator checked out as well. However, while he was still there—YIKES!—the strange phenomena manifested. Undaunted, our fearless technician set to work, and before long he had traced the problem... to a faulty breaker. Case closed. An exorcist would not be required.
This is the first time that Generator Service Company has been called to troubleshoot a haunted house.
January 19, 1959
by Steve '71
In a foolish attempt to “get into the mood,” I’d entered the abandoned Waloomsac Inn with a bottle of Amontillado, five candles, a fountain pen, and writing paper. I’d chosen an old chair in the basement to sit in, to toast Edgar Alan Poe, and to wait for inspiration.
But the sherry hadn’t helped. My head started throbbing. Another nervous headache! I’d decided to lie down for a moment…
When I awoke, I found myself sitting on the filthy floor with my back to the wall. I had the strange feeling I was tied down with ropes. Even my arms were fastened. I couldn’t move my fingers. My mind was racing. Was it a stroke? My brain was pounding. I heard the sound of something scurrying in the wall behind me. How long had I been unconscious?
I couldn’t speak. I could only stare into the darkened room. The candlelight ebbed. I couldn’t turn my head. I wanted to cry for help. My mind was overloaded with frustrations... and visions.
I thought I saw a figure in my chair, writing. I heard the scratching of my pen. I must have been dreaming!
Shadows danced, rising and falling to the floor. The figure stopped writing and laid down my pen. It turned to face me; I saw the saddened eyes, the thinning hair, the high forehead….
It was Edgar Allan Poe.
He did not move. He just looked in my direction with the familiar quiet pained expression of his portraits, as if all of the weariness of the world lay within his experience.
“You know nothing of what I have given you,” a girl’s voice issued from Poe’s closed lips.
“I wrote no superficial ghost stories. No Halloween cartoons. I gave you the secrets of a heart laid bare. I gave you the symbols of man’s self-destructive passion... the drive to still every human breath. His mass suicidal perversity. But you wanted only the thrills of artificial dangers, easily distanced from any real experience in your pretend reality.
“My horrors were real. These were the warnings you ignored. If you cannot acknowledge the truth of your own symbols, know this; they will manifest themselves in reality and eat you alive.” And with that Poe’s head fell off his body and rolled across the floor towards me. The skin was flayed from his face so that the exposed red muscle fibers jerked and quivered; his jaws chewed madly at a table leg.
I felt something drop onto my head. Suddenly I saw rodents flow out of the shadows and across the floor towards me; it was a swarm of lemmings! Poe’s head bounced past the table leg and rolled toward my foot, biting, consuming….
I could not scream. I could only watch in silence.
****
In the morning, the sun’s rays slid across the parlor floor of the old inn. A small sheaf of papers lay on a table. On top was a block-lettered story about a dog named Spot.