Every haunted building has a history. Tales of grisly murders and accounts of supernatural activity hover over these structures like a noxious cloud. There’s a lot to be considered behind the term “haunted.” So how did Harding’s Lee building come to be branded with such a mystical and ghostly adjective?
Legend says the Lee building, built from the ruins of an old dorm, harbors the ghost of a girl who fell to her death in the dorm elevator shaft. Gertie the ghost (whose existence has never been proven) has surrounded the Lee building with an inescapable aura of horror and trepidation. In a 2013 interview, Jim Johnson, director of student support systems, said he didn’t believe the Gertie stories when he first came to Harding, but his own experiences over the years have been chilling and unsettling.
“Once when I was in the old band room (in the Lee building), … I (heard) music,” Johnson said. “I hear the run of the piano, and it’s this woman’s beautiful voice. All I thought was, ‘man, that is so pretty,’ but then I remembered that there are no pianos in the building, and I was alone.”
So where and how does one draw the line between irrational fear and legitimate unease? Is the Lee building home to the vengeful soul of a former student? Or is it simply a misunderstood old structure full of character and personality?
As both a reporter and a Harding student, I decided it was time to find out. I decided to spend the night in the Lee building and shine a light on this mystery once and for all.
It was a Friday night. The moon was out, and campus was quiet. Armed with Pop Tarts and Mountain Dew and accompanied by my fearless friend Patrick, I entered the building around midnight, setting up camp in the lobby. A public safety worker showed us the emergency exit, and then we were alone. It was dark—incredibly dark. But it wasn’t the darkness that got to me first.
It was the quiet.
The interior of the building became a veritable tomb. Other than my own footsteps and those of my companion, there was no sound to be heard. I would have gladly accepted the rumored piano music over this unearthly silence.
However, around 2 a.m., on yet another dark walk through the upstairs regions, the building came alive.
The heating unit, which we had shut off at the beginning of the night, unexpectedly began to run. An owl hooted outside the window. A door squeaked from the opposite end of the hall. Sweat began pouring down my face. Shaky hands rendered useless, I fumbled with my flashlight. Patrick beat me to the task, turning on his headlamp and illuminating the hall with an eery blue light. A strange sound, like that of an old wheelchair being pushed ever so slowly, reached our ears. But was it coming from upstairs or downstairs?
I didn’t want to know.
With trembling footsteps, we began making our way down the hallway. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t contemplate jumping out of one of the open windows. The heating unit revved up its intensity, sounding like a train thundering through the night. The haunting high-pitched creak of the wheelchair grew louder as well, as if a paralyzed soul was stalking our every move. Without warning, Patrick’s headlamp went out. In the same instant, the rumored music suddenly filled our ears – horrific grand piano chords. My life flashed before my eyes.
I woke up in a cold sweat.
Patrick was giving me an inquisitive look. Early morning light flooded through the windows. I shook myself and stood up, blinking the fog out of my vision. With a grin of relief, I realized it was over. We had survived. A nightmare alone had made this adventure exciting.
Ladies and gentleman, I hate to be the bearer of bad news to those who thrive on ghoulish tales, but the Lee building is nothing to be feared. Yes, spending the night there was an excursion I will not quickly forget, but at the end of the day, it is simply a peculiar old building with an obnoxiously loud heating system. Maintenance folks, you should really look into that.
