Giving Up the Ghost: Exploring Haunted Spaces at Columbia
East Campus suite 1212 has five Rite-Aid prayer candles, a bag of store-bought cooking sage, and a vase of lavender sprigs standing between 15 shiftless spiritual passersby and the underworld. Belief in the spiritual realm is what we’re trying to inculcate in a test that pits our skepticism against ghoulish curiosity. As we spread out on our patterned blankets, the tang of incense suffuses the lounge and our eyes fix on the motionless pendulum suspended between wine bottles in the center of our circle.
Séances bring a group of people together to talk to the dead, although in recent American history, these gatherings have more commonly been arranged under cover of night than through a Facebook event page. Since we couldn’t secure a medium’s services in the costly New York spiritual marketplace, our séance was organized as an experiment to see if we could make contact with the paranormal with a student budget and a do-it-yourself attitude.
Using a roster of spirit names, including Mathilde Schechter, whose alleged haunting of a Jewish Theological Seminary residence is chronicled in this story, my friends and I spent hours watching YouTube tutorials in order to learn how to conduct an authentic séance.
At first we all affect superficial fearlessness. We are cracking jokes and giggling, but everybody follows orders. We have all brought some familiar totems with us, a shield against the veiled threat of another world that almost no one in the room admits to believing in.
That morning, in preparation for the séance, I had consulted with a witch: 2012 Columbia College alumna Salomeya Sobko. Sobko cautions us to be respectful of whatever or whomever we invoked. We need something in our pockets that would be familiar, even if it was a fidget spinner. Something rooted to who we are, because this would be no game: Invocation is “very dangerous,” Sobko says. “Very dangerous.”
We can’t use the names of the archangels, a demographic that for her includes the falcon-headed Egyptian war god, Horus. If you believe in ghosts, and Sobko does, then words matter—in terms of how long they have been used and by whom, and in terms of how they can confer uncurbed power on a suite full of reckless Columbia students on a Friday night during midterm season.
“When I do invocations I only ever do banishing rituals. I’ve never invoked a spirit and invited it into my space,” Sobko tells me, smiling wryly. She seems interested in the ostensibly journalistic experiment my friends and I are conducting, but she clearly doubts whether it’s a good idea. “That’s just me.” One student verbalizes his fears about interacting with a spirit world he doesn’t truly believe in—don’t poke the bear.
The séance, like this story, asks at one level whether the spirit world is out there, and on another what makes it possible for people to believe that it exists.
This piece is designed to explore that question by approaching belief in the spirit world in a narrative that starts before Columbia came to Morningside Heights and ends with ghost stories in the present day. The haunted, the grisly, the morbid, and the neglected all form part of the backdrop of this story.
The séance is a mix of the spiritual and the profane, as Scotch-taped bathroom mirrors supposedly restrain wandering demonic presences. One of the two séance leaders smilingly “cleanses” participants as they walk in, and cell phones are collected for the duration of the ritual. The sanctity of St. Jude’s face on the prayer candles is counterbalanced by the on-the-nose bluntness of the “Ghost Soul”-brand wine used for the offering. There’s an anticipatory cloud hanging overhead as my friends ask stupid questions: “Horace, like the Latin poet?” But the séance leader stalks the room in black from head to toe, and an icy thrill shoots up our spines.
“Can someone get the lamps off for me?”
We are going to poke the bear. The room is suffocating with expectation, and my real goal is to untangle the story of why we want to believe and what has actually driven belief in the spiritual world at Columbia over time.
Amy Moon for Spectator
Belief in the hereafter on campus sometimes seems to express itself in a desire for more tangible connections to Columbia’s past. The opacity of the histories of the physical structures in which students reside and study can lend themselves to re-interpretation. Wien Hall, the dorm whose alleged links to the Bloomingdale Insane Asylum are described by WikiCU, is an easy target for would-be mythologizers.
Wien is a corridor-style dorm for mainly sophomores and juniors, located on West 116th Street, off Amsterdam Avenue. The eerie myths surrounding the dorm harken back to Columbia’s expansion into Morningside Heights in 1894 and to an asylum’s founding by the Society of New York Hospital in 1821.
But Wien’s actual links to the asylum aren’t that clear. WikiCU accurately contradicts the myth that Wien itself was an asylum building and clarifies that an asylum building stood where Wien now stands. Previous Spectator editorials and investigations consulting with campus history experts like Robert McCaughey have set the record straight as well.
But for two of the practicing witches I spoke to for this story, living in the dorm had psychologically destabilizing effects that left powerful impressions on them.
“I lived there for an academic year and I can say that I felt like I was under psychic assault the entire time,” Sobko says. For her, Wien had an oppressive ambience that was a product of how haunted she felt Columbia was generally, compounded by isolating design issues, like the bars on her windows. Wien has been described as a dorm that looks like an “industrial prison.” The dull yellows and whites and massive wooden fireplace in the ballroom to the right of the entrance capture the mood.
Sobko and her friends even produced a zine called “Wien Psychosis,” feeling that the name encapsulated their experience.
“At the time that I was living there, I was like, I guess I’m just having a really hard time,” she says. Hindsight and collaboration on the zine shifted her view. “I realized that actually, no, that place has a very dark, heavy atmosphere.”
Emily Li / Staff Designer
Meanwhile, Cloud Naj, a witch, 2016 Barnard graduate, and current SIPA master’s candidate, sees Wien as a place that changes people. She claims that friends of hers entered the dorm in a normal state and left it permanently altered.
“Whether or not there are ghost stories, per se, you can just see it,” Naj says.
But even if Wien was the same building as the Bloomingdale Insane Asylum, it may not be as spooky as imagined. Graduate School of Architecture, Planning, and Preservation Professor Andrew Dolkart, devoted an entire chapter of his book on the history of Morningside Heights to the asylum. “it was neither decrepit nor creepy. From our point of view today it wasn’t progressive, but it was at the time,” he explains. “They didn’t lock people up. Or chain people up, which was the tradition.”
Aarushi Jain / Staff Photographer
And for your average Wien resident, life seems to continue as normal upon entering the residence. Jessica Bai, a Columbia College junior, is quick to dismiss any interference by the supernatural in her first months at the dorm.
“My life has been good since I moved into Wien, honestly,” she says, laughing. “My life has been trending upwards.” Bai fits a fairly skeptical mold on occult questions, like many of the other students I talked to: She is not religious, does not believe in ghosts, and has seen no hauntings in her halls. Maybe learning about the asylum story freaked her out, but not in a meaningful way. “Nothing’s tried to kill me yet,” she says. “I think I’m doing well.”
The Society of New York Hospital sold the asylum’s land to Columbia in 1891 under intense political pressure from local businessmen and politicians. The mentally ill were not seen as desirable neighbors, and the asylum’s board wanted to move outside the chaos of the city. Wien remains on the land Bloomingdale was once built on, but even the asylum seems not to have been that terrifying after all.
If people believe in ghosts at Wien, it seems it might have more to do with their preconceptions of the space than it does the reality of Bloomingdale’s history.
Wien might evoke creepy vibes in part due to the horror movie trope of the nightmarish asylum seen in films like 1946’s Karloff classic “Bedlam” and 2011’s “Grave Encounters.” But Ruggles Five, which encompasses the double 509 and singles 508 to 512, has a palpably lurid history tied to the murder of sophomore Kathleen Roskot by her Columbia dropout ex-boyfriend, Thomas Nelford, Jr., on February 5, 2000.
The mythologization of this tragedy may explain what kinds of spaces foster belief in a spiritual world at Columbia. The suite inducts a new generation of six students each year, without any mechanism for dialogue between members of different classes. Each group thus has to tackle the historical identity of the suite differently.
Nelford stabbed Roskot to death with a kitchen knife in her room, 509, and then fled to the 181st Street and St. Nicholas Avenue subway station and threw himself under an oncoming train. The murder-suicide unleashed a media storm and rocked the campus community, beset by the New York press as it struggled to internalize the loss. One account from the Federalist’s reporting states that Beta members threw “anything that was not nailed down” at a reporter who offered to give them a case of beer for a picture of Nelford, who had frequently spent time at their house.
Hundreds attended Roskot’s memorial service, where Columbia’s current football chaplain Thomas Valenti paraphrased the book of Job: “Why do bad things happen to good people?” Roskot had been a well-liked member of the lacrosse team and was also memorialized by then-University President George Rupp. Nelford, on the other hand, had gradually phased out of the Columbia community during a mental breakdown that seems to have been driven by family crisis. He left the wrestling team, dropped out of school, and traveled extensively before crashing on friends’ couches in New York in the leadup to the murder.
Neither Roskot nor Nelford are mentioned much around campus now, but the suite—and faint memories of the crime it witnessed—remain.
“I have a couple friends who are like, ‘I would not live there because someone died there,’” Darnel Theagene, a former Ruggles 509 resident and a senior at the School of Engineering and Applied Science, says. The University’s lack of disclosure to incoming residents is interesting given that in some parts of the world, such silence could be legally problematic. Under British law, property owners can under very rare circumstances be found liable for failing to disclose a haunting. Theagene notes how Ruggles 509’s history would impact its status on a true free market.
“It’s like if you tried to sell a shirt that belonged to a mass murderer or something, it would devalue it. But it’s still a shirt, right?” he says.
Ruggles Five has no history of hauntings that I could uncover, and each of the residents I spoke to said that nothing supernatural had ever happened to them in the suite. Instead, what subtly changed life there was the consciousness of mortality and historical memory infused into a living space that they were simultaneously trying to make their own.
“If anything, we were kind of intrigued by it,” Theagene’s roommate, Columbia College senior Leo O’Brien, says. Although WikiCU claims that the suite’s residents usually had poor lottery picks, O’Brien and Theagene had good lottery numbers, and they felt lucky to have ended up in Ruggles.
But having had an element of free choice did not fully normalize the suite for O’Brien. “One of the things that would occupy my mind most while lying in bed was just like, ‘What happened here?’ ‘Where in the room did it like, you know…’” his voice trails off.
Ruggles Five is an interesting case study relative to Wien because of the blunt, matter-of-fact approach its residents take to its dark past. O’Brien and Theagene were aware of the fact that a girl had been murdered in their suite when they applied to live in Ruggles, but they didn’t know much more than that basic sketch. They were surprised to learn that the murder was not some dim historical footnote—O’Brien was shocked to discover it had happened in 2000, well within living memory. One night as his group of friends gathered in their lounge, one of his suitemates who had researched the murder told them about the grisly details of the stabbing and the subway suicide.
“It was 10 p.m. … so within a couple hours I’ll have to go back to the room,” O’Brien remembers being nervous about getting spooked later on in the night. But the initial discomfort of learning about the dark truth behind the poorly preserved memory of a campus tragedy did not linger. “We kind of made the room our own. After you live in it long enough.”
Residents of Ruggles Five also found coping tactics: humor, usually of a caustic variety. O’Brien and Theagene’s group chat nicknamed their suite “Slaughterhouse Five,” a macabre acknowledgment of the past that has gained some wider usage around campus. “The way we got comfortable with it is, we had a pretty dark sense of humor so we joked about it a little bit. ‘We’re in the murder suite! Woah!’” O’Brien recalls.
Theagene and O’Brien’s suitemates even considered hosting a themed murder mystery party, but they dropped the plan due to organizational issues and a desire to be respectful to the dead. “It’s not quite long ago that it’s a fun urban legend,” O’Brien says. “It felt weird to monopolize on that.”
O’Brien and Theagene said that living in the suite required getting used to the occasional gusts of wind, like anywhere else. Sometimes Theagene would hear screams echoing up from parties downstairs, and, once, he even overheard an argument between a suitemate and their significant other that became so heated he had to call Public Safety. The intensity of that dispute stuck with him, especially when he reflects on the fight that turned violent in 509 that night 17 years ago. But beyond the menace of coincidence, living in 509 left a strong impression on Theagene.
“I am a religious person, and my mind is [of] someone open to the fact of spiritual things happening that you can’t fully explain,” Theagene says. He wants to think rationally, but he knows how easy it is for people to abandon rationality when faced with the ineffable, and thinks it’s important to observe respect toward alternative possibilities. Laughing, he uses the example of the cartoon character Squidward’s reaction to the Flying Dutchman on the show Spongebob Squarepants as an example of the quick backpedaling of some “unbelievers.”
“He doesn’t believe in ghosts at all, but he ends up being terrified when he realizes that there’s a ghost there,” he says. “There’s the 1 percent [chance] that you could be wrong.”
Both Theagene and O’Brien wonder what it will mean for 509 to ultimately become just another room. “Is it okay that these stories kind of get left behind? Because you’re constantly cycling through new groups of students,” he says.
Historical memory at Columbia seems relatively fleeting when it comes to tragedies. Roskot was eulogized by a University president and is now just the protagonist of a story that faintly bothers each year’s Ruggles Five cohort.
Aarushi Jain / Staff Photographer
Aarushi Jain / Staff Photographer
“I’m glad it’s a double, I really am,” he says. “I’ll tell you that I slept better when Leo was there.”
Mathilde Schechter Residence Hall
Ruggles Five residents select their suite as a group of six and have no links to prior residents with whom they could talk and share stories. Maybe something about belief in the spiritual world shifts when you multiply that number 15 times over. Given the chance to engage with a community’s collective memory, perhaps students can read deeper meanings into the inner life of their residences.
The Mathilde Schechter Residence Hall, an underclassmen dormitory known by some as MSRH by residents, is home to persistent ghost stories about its founder.
“At some point around the time of you entering the dorm as a freshman, something weird would happen and one of the upperclassmen would tell you ‘Oh, that’s just the ghost of Mathilde Schechter,’” Molly Heller, who graduated from JTS/GS in 2015, says. And with that, first-years were introduced to a half-serious, and for some people entirely sincere, story about the undead, fondly referred to by residents as Tilly Schec.
MSRH is part of Columbia’s recently forgotten history, as the house’s sale by the Jewish Theological Seminary in spring 2015 took with it 40-plus years of the University’s past. The building was dedicated in 1974 to Mathilde Schechter, who founded the Women’s League for Conservative Judaism in 1918.
Schechter and her organization were at the center of the Conservative Judaism movement, whose rabbinical seminary is JTS and which aims to promote the conservation of Jewish traditions and law as interpreted through a modern critical framework. WLCJ’s website describes Schechter as a “celebrity” whose dramatic founding of the movement has ensured “steadfast” reverence ever since.
To put it more bluntly: Schechter does not seem like a good candidate for a haunting. Nor does the hall named in honor of her historic and by all accounts happy life seem like it would be the stalking ground of a specter, tragic or otherwise. But current and former JTS students confirm the ghost stories about her, which seem to demand explanation.
“There were a lot of random door slams for no reason,” Heller says. “You would be in a room with the door wide open and it would slam out of nowhere with no one having pushed it.”
There was also the “really, really creepy” laundry room, located in MSRH’s freezing basement, which added to the residence hall’s uncanny atmosphere. People would reportedly hear strange noises when they went to do their laundry, and so the space was by and large abandoned. Tilly Schec’s presence, at least as it was experienced by the community, was something that became apparent to residents gradually.
But the MSRH is an older facility, and so Heller acknowledges that the creaking “just kind of came with the territory of living in that building.”
Corey Hirsch, a senior in the GS/JTS program, describes other features of the hall that made it conducive to the production of a ghost story: The basement was full of old relics, the library was basically abandoned, and the yellow lighting was unnerving.
Tassneen Bashir for Spectator
“I’m sure if you wanted to start a mythology around ghosts and weird happenings, you could very easily,” Lindsey Rubin, a junior in the GS/JTS program, says. “How frequently can the lights turn off before you start thinking that maybe it was intentional?”
Even if the age of the facilities might be a valid explanation, these stories have been around for a while. Enough time for the ghost to become familiar.
“If something weird was happening, we would always say, ‘Oh, that’s Tilly saying hi.’”
Hirsch affirmed that true believers thought Tilly Schec was a friendly ghost. “It was less so about Mathilde Schechter being a ghost, like the ghost of Mathilde Schechter coming to haunt you, and actually more of the ghost of Mathilde Schechter coming during the Sabbath Day to help you enjoy your day,” he says.
When I ask him if he believes in ghosts, Hirsch gives me a firm no. “But do I believe that there is some sort of odd spirit to the building? Yes. Absolutely. I think that it had a spirit to it, almost like a zeitgeist. Some sort of feeling that was throughout the entire building based on plenty of different reasons.”
Heller’s language throughout the first half of her interview seems to imply a belief in Tilly Schec, or at least a willingness to talk about her ghost in forbearing terms. Doors did slam in front of her and numerous other people, and “she seemed to be a nice ghost.” Tilly Schec “did” things, and “no one was really afraid of her.” But she quickly pivots to providing an explanation for the unnerving events: the age of the building, the need for renovations, the collective willingness to suspend disbelief.
“I never attributed it to anything supernatural,” she says. “If I’d seen the ghost, it would have been easier to fall on the other side. But no visual confirmation.”
Logically, large numbers and continuity across time would increase the likelihood of a ghost story having staying power. But even Heller’s immersion in the JTS community at the MSRH, where she saw activity others attributed to the ghost, failed to convince her of the spirit’s reality, just as it failed to convince Hirsch.
So if even a small community of religious students who believe in a haunted dorm can rationalize everything away, I’m not sure anything can survive explanation at Columbia.
For all its rationalism, its unremitting academic calendar, its lack of real continuity between narratives over time in most community spaces outside JTS—and maybe even directly because of those things—Columbia does support a past and current population of students who earnestly maintain magical spiritual practices. Whereas a skeptic like Hirsch has developed a set of rebuttals to his peers who believe ghosts haunt MSRH, Columbia’s past and present witching community also has sincere and articulate reasons for its beliefs.
Three “witches” who have graduated from Columbia in the last five years gave me explanations for what makes it possible for them to believe in the supernatural to varying degrees when so many other students here—in Wien, Ruggles, and JTS—find such faith impossible. Their interpretation of the facts of “supernatural” experiences they had elsewhere, but especially at Columbia, stands in marked contrast to how Hirsch and other students deconstruct paranormal narratives.
Aarushi Jain / Staff Photographer
Cloud Naj, Salomeya Sobko, and Haylin Belay, who graduated from Columbia College in 2015, are all intimately versed in a particularized spiritual exercise that is rooted in enduring traditions. Taken as a group, perhaps they more than anyone else from the Columbia community can supply comprehensive reasons for beliefs in a spiritual, energetic world.
“My personal relationship with witchcraft is diametrically opposed to this Western rationality and idea that there are such things as truth and its opposite. It doesn’t matter if it’s real; what matters is if it’s true,” Belay says. That means magic works for her so long as it effectively serves as an organizing principle in her life.
“Coming to witchcraft was an acknowledgment that there are other ways other than Western rationality to understand the world,” Belay says.
Belay came to believe that no matter her awareness of psychological biases built into magical practices like tarot, the ritual still retained a powerful significance in her spiritual life. Whereas a JTS student like Heller might view her doubts about an uncanny experience as a reason to discredit its truth, Haylin sees the idea of truth itself as malleable.
Naj and Sobko share less of her skepticism when it comes to factors like confirmation bias. Their belief in the truth of magic is derived from direct personal contact with an “energetic” world they say is both dangerous and profound. Haylin has developed a rigorous individualized theology of sorts for her witchcraft, but Naj and Sobko have the raw passion of people who have seen the revelation firsthand when they talk about magic.
Both Naj and Sobko have stories about interactions with spiritual presences and say they have been haunted. Naj describes the same black figure appearing in her dreams, her partner’s dreams, the dreams of her friends and parents, of him choking her mother in her sleep and finally forcing Naj to conduct a cleansing of her home.
Aarushi Jain / Staff Photographer
Sobko was haunted in Ruggles for months by the ghost of her grandfather, whose courtship of her grandmother, among other scenes from his youth, would flit through her mind at night. Eventually, she too had to ask him to leave, by writing to him in her journal in his native language, Russian.
Naj and Sobko are sincere and articulate about their beliefs. Both of them locate their spiritual ideas partly in academic discourse, and are imposingly knowledgeable about their interests. To an extent, it feels like they can interpret what a generic Columbia student might view as coincidence as part of a pattern. Sobko’s dreams about her grandfather, or the reappearance of Naj’s magic number 616 on license plates, or Naj’s habit of dating men with poodles might be viewed differently by other people. But Naj mentions one pattern that sticks with me—she started burying and sometimes performing taxidermy on the dead animals she found while studying at Barnard, and she finds more dead animals than anyone reasonably could.
Naj describes encounters with the spiritual world, and there it is, 20 feet away by the John Jay garden—a dead pigeon that I’m pretty sure wasn’t there before.
“See what I mean! See what I mean though!” Naj exclaims.
In that moment, it’s hard to argue.
There is both a release and an uptake of tension as we initiate the séance, hand in hand and palm over palm. Our circle of 15 allows the outside world to meld into an extraneous blur, our attention converging on each other and the pendulum. Our breath undulates outwards as we sync up to the rhythmic chanting coming from the séance leader. The yellow sunflowers and rolling waves stitched on our blankets seem like a refrain for normal Friday nights in libraries, dorm parties and our own rooms, where nobody sets out blood-laced tomato soup and expects an incorporeal being to stop by.
“You’re actually deemed crazy to imagine that there are nefarious forces that are interfering with your experience,” Sobko says. She knows that she was haunted at Columbia, but for her to have expressed that to her peers would have invoked scorn or worse. You can’t believe in this stuff, not seriously—and maybe we can’t, either. “That’s where the line is drawn. That’s considered schizophrenia, or dissociative disorder.”
Our séance follows a predictable pattern. The leader outlines the rules: phones away, ignore outside sounds, do not break the circle, and speak only when asked. We start with an exercise which inculcates togetherness even as it drones out dissent: “N,” a letter we dronemonosyllabically as if trying out for a monk apprenticeship program.
Breathing in and out.
“Nnnnnnnnnnn,” over and over.
We tell any invisible audience members that we’re waiting for them, and we want to talk.
“Spirits, we are sitting here today gathered here today, gathered tonight to open the space to you. We have cleansed the space, cleansed ourselves,” my friend says. The last traces of laughter, of humor as an escape from confrontation with an experience that is deliberately uncomfortable, are suppressed.
This speech is heavy with freighted pauses. “If you are here, make yourself known by swinging the pendulum to the right.”
Moments of silence are, however, both boon and toxin to an amateur séance in a suite crammed clown-car style with unbelievers. We can feel our chests rise and fall nervously, but we can also hear the “Woos” echoing down the hall. It’s just another Friday night in EC. Chairs squeak nearby, cars honk 12 stories down in the New York maze, and after a fateful quarter of an hour there is an impasse.
The people in this room are mostly irreligious and mostly skeptics, and either because we’re right or because our doubt is palpable, our experiment is doomed. Our troupe can’t deny the absence of evidence in our eyes and ears, and we respectfully ask the spirits we cannot see to leave. Per a generous interpretation of our Googled instructions, we microwave sage from Westside to cleanse a space that seems empty already and relax into the fragile normalcy of small talk, drinking, and studying. I think back to Naj’s epiphanies.
“For me, I have proof,” she says. Proof that there is something more beyond what we see in our daily lives. Proof in the form of license plates, timely inheritances from deceased relatives, birds lying dead in gardens. “I think everyone has the capacity to feel magic.”
Our séance could not invent the kind of community, building, or religious environment that typically sustains belief in the spiritual. Ghost stories and magical practice seem at some level to be a solution to rootlessness, to fix a person, place or community in a broader and immortalized narrative. But our gathering in EC 1212, marked by shared yearning for something more, could not obviate the need for proof.
Aarushi Jain / Staff Photographer
Maybe our twinned skepticism and fascination was just weak-willed curiosity. Darnel Theagene, Ruggles 509 veteran, told me that the rigidly skeptical are defenseless. “Maybe you aren’t even willing to address the possibility explicitly, but you’re still thinking about it inside.”
But looking outside my suite’s window that night, the room saturated in a dim yellow glow and New York alight in typical kaleidoscopic frenzy, all I could hear was the traffic and the soft chatter of my friends. The next morning I took down the Scotch tape on our mirror and brushed my teeth.
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