Virginia

It was a clear, crisp night in Cedar City, the kind that Southern Utah is known for. The sky was a blanket of stars, the air was cold enough to bite through the uniform, and the campus of Southern Utah University was unusually quiet. As an officer fresh out of the academy, still carrying the naïve belief that the worst trouble I’d find on a college campus would be a rowdy party or a petty theft, I welcomed the quiet. But as the hours dragged on and the silence deepened, I started to feel uneasy.

My shift had started like any other. I grabbed a coffee from the student center, did a few laps around the dorms, and parked near the library to fill out some reports. The campus was almost eerily peaceful, the kind of calm that makes you feel like you’re the only person left in the world. I should have known better. When things are too quiet, something’s usually waiting in the wings, ready to shatter that peace.

As the clock neared midnight, I decided to take a final walk around Old Main—a building that stood like a sentinel at the heart of the campus. It was one of the original structures, a relic from the university’s early days, built in the late 1800s in the rugged style typical of the rural Intermountain West. Rumored to be haunted, its weathered bricks and sturdy construction spoke more of endurance than elegance. But I wasn’t the kind to buy into ghost stories. The tales of a former student, Virginia Loomis, who had died there in the 1920s from an “unfortunate incident,” were just that to me: tales.

Old Main is one of the oldest buildings on campus, built back in 1898. The structure has stood the test of time, bearing witness to generations of students and faculty passing through its hallowed halls. But with age comes a legacy, and Old Main’s legacy is steeped in tragedy and shadow. It’s seen its fair share of history—and a lot of ghost stories. The most famous one, of course, is about Virginia.

Everyone at Southern Utah University knows the tale, even if they don’t believe it. According to legend, Virginia was a student who met a gruesome end over a century ago. The details of her death vary depending on who’s telling the story, but the general consensus is that she was brutally murdered by her boyfriend, Steven Farr. Some say it was a crime of passion, others claim it was premeditated, but the outcome was always the same—Virginia’s lifeless body was found in a quarry east of Cedar City, draped over a bloody boulder. The discovery shook the small community to its core, and whispers of foul play spread like wildfire.

The quarry, once a place of industry, became a site of horror. No one wanted to go near it after what happened to Virginia. But in a twist that only deepened the darkness surrounding her death, that very boulder—the one stained with her blood—was quarried and used to make the bricks that built Old Main. Some say that’s why her spirit is tied to the building, why she can’t rest, and why she still roams the third floor, seeking justice or revenge or simply an end to her suffering.

Most people around here know the story. They say Virginia haunts the third floor, appearing to students who dare to venture there late at night. I’d always dismissed it as nonsense—a ghost story meant to scare freshmen or to add a bit of color to campus lore. Even when I took the job as campus police, I didn’t give it much thought. Ghosts weren’t real, and I had more important things to worry about than chasing shadows. But as I stood in front of Old Main that cold night, the memory of the tale crept into my mind, unbidden, and for the first time, I felt a twinge of doubt.

My radio crackled with static, a brief distraction that brought me back to the present. I adjusted my belt, tried to shake off the unease, and told myself it was just another routine check. But as I walked up the worn stone steps, the building loomed larger in the darkness, its silhouette framed by the dim glow of the campus lights. The old structure, with its sturdy brick walls and simple, functional design, cast long, dark shadows that seemed to stretch out toward me, as if the building itself was reaching, beckoning me inside.

The heavy wooden door creaked as I pushed it open, the sound reverberating through the empty foyer. I stepped inside, and the smell of old wood and dust immediately hit me. But there was something else, too—an undertone of something acrid, almost metallic. I hesitated, then dismissed it. Old buildings always had odd smells.

The air in Old Main was different from the rest of the campus. It felt dense, almost thick, like walking through a fog. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant hum of the heating system struggling to keep the chill at bay. The floorboards groaned under my weight as I made my way down the corridor, each step echoing loudly in the stillness.

The hallway was lined with old photographs—black-and-white images of the university in its early days. The faces of students and faculty stared out from another time, their expressions frozen in time. There was something unsettling about the way their eyes seemed to follow me as I passed. I quickened my pace, eager to finish my rounds and get out of the building.

As I neared the stairwell that led to the third floor, I felt a sudden drop in temperature. The cold was sharp, biting, more intense than the winter air outside. I stopped in my tracks, my breath hanging in the air like a cloud. That’s when I heard it—the faint sound of footsteps above me.

I knew I was the only one on duty that night. The building should have been empty. But there it was, the unmistakable sound of someone walking slowly, deliberately, across the third floor. My heart began to race, and for a moment, I considered turning around and leaving. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was drawing me up there, something I needed to see.

I took a deep breath and started up the stairs. The old wood creaked with every step, the sound growing louder in the oppressive silence. The third floor had a reputation among the students. They said it was where Virginia Loomis was most active, where her presence was felt most strongly. I’d never been up there alone at night, and as I climbed higher, I began to understand why the stories persisted.

When I reached the top of the stairs, the air was even colder, and the smell of smoke was stronger. It was faint but unmistakable—the acrid scent of burning tobacco, like someone had been smoking a cigarette nearby. But there was no one there, just a long, dark hallway lined with doors to empty classrooms.

I turned on my flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness. The light flickered slightly, the batteries struggling against the cold. I began walking down the hallway, the light bouncing off the walls and casting long shadows that danced eerily along the floor. My footsteps echoed back at me, but there was another sound too—something faint, like the rustle of fabric or the soft patter of rain.

Then I saw it—a door halfway down the hall was slightly ajar, just enough to let a sliver of light spill out into the hallway. My pulse quickened, and I tightened my grip on the flashlight. I approached the door slowly, my senses on high alert. As I reached out to push it open, a cold draft swept through the hallway, carrying with it that same faint voice I had heard earlier.

“Help me…”

The words were soft, almost a sigh, but they sent a jolt of fear through me. I pushed the door open, half-expecting to find someone—or something—waiting for me inside. But the room was empty, just like before. Desks and chairs were neatly arranged, untouched, as if frozen in time. The only thing out of place was the window at the far end of the room. It was open, the curtains fluttering gently in the cold breeze.

I approached the window, shining my flashlight on the floor, hoping to find some clue—anything that could explain what was happening. But as I drew closer, the air grew colder still, and I could see my breath again, thick and white in the beam of the flashlight.

That’s when I saw her.

She was standing in front of the window, her back to me, her figure illuminated by the faint moonlight filtering in from outside. She wore a simple dress, the fabric pale and thin, fluttering slightly in the breeze. Her hair was dark and fell in loose waves over her shoulders, but it was matted and wet, as if she had just climbed out of the lake. Her shoulders were hunched, her head bowed, and for a moment, I thought she was crying.

“Ma’am?” I called out, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to stay calm.

She didn’t respond, didn’t even turn to acknowledge me. I took a step closer, the floor creaking beneath my boots. The sound echoed through the room, but she remained still, her focus fixed on something outside the window. I felt a surge of dread, the kind that comes when you know you’re seeing something you shouldn’t.

“Virginia?” The name slipped from my lips before I could stop it, as if it had been waiting there all along.

At the sound of her name, she slowly turned to face me. My blood ran cold as I saw her face, pale and gaunt, her eyes sunken and hollow. Her gaze was empty, like looking into a void. But her lips—they were moving, forming words that I couldn’t hear, words that seemed to float just out of reach.

I took another step closer, compelled by something I couldn’t explain. That’s when I noticed the water dripping from her dress, pooling on the floor around her feet. The smell of damp earth and decay filled the room, overwhelming the scent of smoke. Her lips kept moving, forming the same word over and over, but it was as if the sound was being swallowed by the darkness.

I leaned in, straining to hear. And then, just as the sound reached my ears, she vanished. Gone, as if she had never been there. The room was empty, silent, the cold air lingering in her absence.

But the word she had been mouthing, the word I had finally heard, echoed in my mind.

“Help.”

I stumbled back, my heart pounding, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The flashlight flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness. I fumbled for my radio, desperate to hear another human voice, but all I got was static, a harsh, grating sound that filled me with a deep sense of dread.

The building around me seemed to shift, the walls closing in, the air growing thicker, heavier. I could feel her presence still, lingering, watching. The faint smell of cigarette smoke wafted through the air again, mixing with the scent of decay. I turned and ran, my footsteps echoing through the empty hallway as I fled down the stairs, out the door, and into the night.

I didn’t stop until I was back at my patrol car, my breath coming in ragged bursts, my hands trembling as I fumbled with the keys. I looked back at Old Main, its dark silhouette looming against the night sky. The building stood silent, its windows dark, as if nothing had happened, as if it hadn’t just shown me a glimpse of something beyond comprehension.

I wanted to believe it had all been a hallucination, a trick of the mind brought on by fatigue and the eerie atmosphere of the old building. But deep down, I knew better. I had seen her, felt her presence, heard her desperate plea for help. And I knew that whatever had happened to Virginia Loomis over a century ago, her spirit was still trapped in that place, bound to the building by the very bricks that had once borne witness to her murder.

I drove away from Old Main that night, but the experience never left me. Even now, years later, the memory haunts me, a shadow that lingers at the edge of my thoughts. I still see her face in my dreams, still hear her voice in the quiet moments when I’m alone. And every now and then, when the wind is just right, I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke, faint and lingering, like a reminder that some spirits never find peace.

And sometimes, when I think about that night, I wonder—what would have happened if I had stayed? If I had listened more closely, tried to help her in some way? Would it have made a difference, or was her fate sealed long ago, when that bloody boulder was turned into brick, and Old Main became her tomb?

I’ll never know for sure, and maybe that’s for the best. But one thing I do know—some doors are better left unopened, and some stories better left untold. Because once you step inside a place like Old Main, once you’ve seen what I’ve seen, there’s no going back.

And the shadows, well, they never truly leave you.

Some people still laugh off the ghost stories, thinking it’s all just campus folklore. But I know better. I’ve seen her. I’ve heard her. And I’ll never forget the night I encountered Virginia Loomis.