This article initially appeared in a print issue of the Monitor published 31 Oct. 2025.

Every October, campus gets a little weirder. Someone swears their dorm is haunted. Someone else hears footsteps when they’re studying alone. A friend tells you about a “cold spot” in the hallway. It’s fun, honestly. But if we take a step back (and maybe turn the flashlight on for a second) it’s pretty clear: Ghosts aren’t real.

And that’s okay.

The Science (or Lack Thereof)

Despite hundreds of years of stories, no one has ever produced real, consistent evidence that ghosts exist. There are no verified photographs, no measurable energy readings, no scientific studies that stand up to scrutiny. Paranormal shows like to toss around fancy gadgets and blurry “orbs,” but what you’re really seeing are dust particles, light reflections or camera malfunctions.

So, if the science isn’t there, why do so many of us feel like ghosts are real?

The Psychology of Being Spooked

Humans are wired to find patterns. When you hear a strange noise in the dark, your brain instantly goes into alert mode, searching for meaning. That rustle might be wind, or the building settling, or a ghost, but your instincts don’t care. Your mind fills in the blanks, because it’s safer to assume “something’s there” than to risk ignoring a threat.

There’s even a term for it: pareidolia—our tendency to see familiar shapes, especially faces, in random objects or patterns. That shadow that looks like a person? That reflection in your window that moves when you do? It’s your brain connecting dots that don’t actually form a picture.

And, of course, our surroundings don’t help. Dim lighting, old pipes, uneven floors and weird acoustics are all the classic ingredients for a haunting.

Why We Keep Believing Anyway

Even if the evidence doesn’t exist, the stories persist, and maybe that’s the real point. Ghost stories have always been a way to explore what we don’t fully understand: death, grief, guilt, memory. They give shape to emotions we can’t easily talk about.

When someone says, “I think my grandmother’s ghost visits me,” what they might really be saying is, “I miss her, and I wish I still felt connected to her.” Believing in ghosts can be comforting.

And for those of us who don’t believe, there’s still something undeniably fun about pretending we do. Ghost stories are social. They bring people together. They let us feel a little rush of fear in a completely safe way. A creaky dorm becomes a shared adventure instead of just a maintenance issue.

The Comfort of the Rational

If anything, knowing ghosts aren’t real makes the world a little easier to live in. You don’t have to worry about angry spirits rearranging your furniture or following you down hallways. There’s comfort in understanding how things work. Science doesn’t take the magic out of life; it replaces superstition with something even more fascinating: reality. The fact that our brains can create entire ghost stories out of shadows and sound is its own kind of mystery.

Upon my very knees, I implore you, heed my message! The curse of knowledge, dear reader, has taken root in my soul, and I can but hope that I can deter some foolhardy wanderer of William Jewell College from exposing themself to the dangers which I, unwittingly, have stared in the face. The ancient evils are awakening, and I would not have you endure their hunger; none of us have the strength to defeat them. Heed this brief warning, and should you be held at bay by some malevolent being, you may yet escape that monster intent on your very marrow. Though it may be too late for me to escape the voracious oblivion that awaits, have courage; you may yet live. 

Perchance you have already taken note of the immortal ascetic who wanders William Jewell College by night. More specifically, she roams Gano Chapel when all the lights are out: you may see her silently admiring the lifeless organ, coaxing faint, faint sounds through its massive dusty pipes; you may observe as she paces the rows of the sanctuary, eyes fixed upwards. Her brown robes, in the corner of your eye, have perhaps flowed past the historical exhibit on the first floor, or maybe you have thought you could see the stage curtains quietly opening and closing; she is pulling the ropes in the attic. But the only place you can catch a glimpse of the Anchorite by day is in the prayer room lower by a floor. Here, on the angular wooden bench, you may watch her meditate, or see, in your peripheral vision, her somewhat translucent shape methodically saying the rosary, perching for hours on the low metal stool. Although she will not cause you any harm, the Anchorite may be displeased should you disrupt her studious prayer. If you wish to share in her wisdom and sanctity, ask politely, to the tune of Ave Maria, that the anchorite will play a game of Uno with you. She will teach you the ways of humility and poverty, and you have a good chance of winning, since she has taken a vow of silence and thus cannot announce when she is down to her final card.

​Some places at William Jewell College seem pleasant and full of light, and indeed I have spent many happy hours idling away my time on the blood-red seats of the amphitheater, which you may find halfway down the Trail of Tyranny behind Marston Hall. Why, I wondered, why call the path by such a nasty name? For indeed the sun shines brightly upon the half-circle, casting the seats into a most marvelous hue. But wander not down the Trail of Tyranny near midnight! I did so, merely wishing to study in my oft-visited haunt of semesters past, but I met with such ghastly guardians that I can no longer so much as pass the place without being taken by a violent trembling in all my limbs. For I nearly faced death that night; walking past the iron lamp, I was suddenly met by a spectre which had six eyes and a jaw so wide that its teeth, set in numerous rows, seemed ready to chew me whole. I have, of course, been beset by supernatural perils before, as my readers may know, but at this sight I could move neither hand nor foot, but stood staring as the Tyrant shambled forward. Casting a glance over his bony shoulder, I saw the seats, formerly so brilliant and cheery in the clearing, now dark as obsidian and occupied by others just as horrible. Some had gangling arms and legs that rested at acute angles in the short-legged chairs: some had such flattened and stretched skin that I seemed to behold a skeleton wrapped in tarpaulin, and all emitted ghastly gargling noises at the sight of me. I stumbled backward into the light of the lamp, at which some of its dim rays hit a mirrored trinket upon my backpack, blinding the Tyrant for an instant as I came to myself and sped off for the safety of the better-lit pathway behind me. Go, enjoy the Amphitheater by day, but stay not past the setting of the sun! I fear lest some intrepid explorer of the night should perish at the many hands of the Trail Tyrants and come no more to that resting place so favored by day.

​The ulterior intentions of William Jewell College’s architecture are not always clear. You may wander a hallway a thousand times, and on the thousand-and-first, it may swallow you whole without apology or explanation. It has upon occasion been necessary for me to enter the traveling box which transports a person from one floor of Curry Hall to another. This elevator has served me faithfully several times, if with uneasy mechanical groans of protest, but I thank the kindly spirits that I did not enter it this week past. Perhaps I did learn something playing cards with the Ancient Anchorite, for on that day my heart was set against entering that small prison, and I could not bring myself to set foot in its metallic embrace. I thought myself a coward, however, and pressed the button, waiting for its arrival. I had nearly stepped into the elevator when I saw a strange dark forest within, blanketed in gray mist that seemed to stretch for miles. I felt as if I were inside a reflection and upside down. This time my wits were less frozen, and before I could answer the deathly pull of that dark landscape I had taken a large step backwards and pulled out the red reverse card that the Anchorite bade me to carry always: and no sooner did I do so than the doors of the elevator slammed with such a force, that my ears rang for a good few hours. I had passed the test. The card smoked and withered, and I was left wondering before those superannuated double doors.

I urge you, beware of the buildings you trust, dear reader, for they may turn on you with such temptations that you fall into the depths of the abyss, leaving this life behind in its entirety. Still I am haunted by the sound of that clear cold wind in my soul, and I would that no other need feel the same terrible weight. Still my dreams lurch at me with the disfigurement of a Tyrant of the Trail, my sleeping hours as haunted as my waking. Still I can find no comfort sitting with the Anchorite in silence, for the evils I have seen are unraveling the knot of my sanity. I beseech you who read this, take my warning not lightly! For there are no safe places in this ravenous world; even William Jewell College will betray you by night, take you as a small morsel into its gaping maw, if you have not the wisdom and wherewithal to run before it is too late.