I began my odyssey of horror in Gifford Hall on the Middlebury College campus. Gifford Hall - a seemingly benign and pleasant name, is it not? But I hear whispers saying that the eponymous Mr. Gifford was a man of depraved sensibilities.They say, in lowered tones with shifty glances, that his victims' sad moral remains still lie in secret caverns beneath the unsavory fortress, lacking even the dignity of a Christian burial.

That I cannot confirm nor deny, but I tell you, the fortress (I say not "castle," for in my mind, "castle" conjures images of nobility and gentility, of which there are neither here) has an air of oppression, as though the very walls may close in on one at any time, as though the very atmosphere is poison. Perhaps, in better days, the halls were filled with light and laughter, but now...well...even the plants sense the unsettled spirits. Ivy chokes the building with its leafy fingers, closing out light, closing out the freedom of the moors.

In some places, the unwholesome vines have begun to penetrate the inner sanctums of Gifford Hall. There, you see? At the top right? A tendril, like miasma from hell, creeps into a classroom. (What arcane secrets and dark magicks are taught in the classrooms here, I fear to reveal here, lest they drag you, my beloved reader, to hell with me and the other poor souls trapped in this fetid place.)

The building loomed as I stepped through the doors. They swung shut behind me with a forbidding clang - as though the doors of my own crypt were slamming closed. But I had escaped, had I not? Was the horror confined not only to Gifford, but to the entire Godforsaken campus? The town? Was nowhere safe?

I ran, as fast as my be-slippered feet could carry me, bosom heaving with exertion. When finally I felt as though the demons were no longer at my back, I stopped and looked back. Gifford peered above the trees, still watching me, always watching, Goddamn it! I shook my delicate fist in defiance, and turned my back on the infernal place.

I saw before me the post office. Hoping against hope, I wondered, could I perhaps get word of my entrapment to the outside world? Could a letter escape this place, where so many students could not? My heart fell. I knew, intuitively my soul knew, that the post could no more leave than could I. And even if a letter did fly away, what then? My panicked scribblings would serve only to bring another sorry soul to this place of Godless horror.

Nervously, feeling Gifford's stygian eyes on my back, I looked over my shoulder. There, at the apex of the hillock, was Mead Chapel. Oh, ill-fated house of God! Now fallen into crepusculence like the rest of this town. I knew there could be no respite for me there. I trudged on, down the hill, always downward.

I leapt back in terror, my heart pounding in my breast. What hound of hell had come to harry me? With relief, I realized it was simply a tasteless objet de art. Many times, when we first arrived, we students had laughed at it, a silly dog playing a silly game of frisbee. But now it took on darker significance. Had the dog, like Lot's wife, looked back on the evil of this place and been transformed? Had some sadistic personage encased their faithful canine companion in iron? But I had no time to ponder these tenebrous hypotheses. I hurried on.

Ha! The fetid demons behind this establishment had a sense of humour, I realized grimly. A monument to an unattainable lofty goal, shaped like a tombstone. "This monument has been erected by the GRAVITY RESEARCH FOUNDATION, Roger W. Babson, Founder. It is to remind students of the blessings forthcoming when a semi-insulator is discovered in order to harness gravity as a free power and reduce airplane accidents." Who was this Babson? Was he a dupe, a hapless victim of this place like myself? Or was he one of the evil ones that founded this abomination, mocking us through chiseled words? I continued my fervent pace, pausing not even to catch my breath. Breath would be of no use if they caught me.

What was this? A church? A house of our Lord? Could I find salvation, sanctuary within its hallowed walls? My pace quickened.

As I neared the cathedral, which a sign declaimed as "Saint Mary's Church of the Assumption," I caught noisome scent on the breeze. I looked closer. I shuddered. The doors were thrown wide open, but they revealed only inky darkness, darkness like the very mouth of hell. My eyes were drawn up the belltower, where I espied one of the demons! There would be no refuge for me here. They had profaned even this.

Town! People! Mayhap here I could find shelter, respite, a chance to regain my strength and formulate a plan for escape. I looked to my left, to be certain they were not coming at my flank.

Ah, that way looked peaceful, free, unsullied. But I knew, for I had tried that method of escape before, that it was closed off by mountains. And these mountains...the horrors, the monstrosities there...Gifford paled in comparison. I could not stand another voyage to the mountains. My mind would break. I turned to the left, toward the hamlet of Middlebury.

I shouted! I cried! I wailed, rending my skirts, worrying my hair. But no one listened. Perhaps the townsfolk were under some spell. Perhaps they had long ago grown insensible to the abominations surrounding them. Perhaps they were accomplices.

I passed quickly through the tiny town, hoping that the outer edge would reveal some method of egress. Oh, how what I saw mocked me! Freedom, sweet freedom, but the freedom was forever closed to me, cordoned off by raging whitewater. I contemplated a swimming escape, although the turbulent waters would almost certainly mean my death. Would an ignoble death be preferable to continuing this cabalistic life? Perhaps, but I could not bear to meet my maker in my unshriven state. I looked again at the sweet hovels on the other side. They taunted me, I, like Tantalus. I turned back, tears of resignation forming in my eyes.

The sun was beginning to set over the mountains. It was not safe to remain outside after nightfall, not in this diabolical place. But the confines of Gifford would be no safer. Disheartened, I reclined on another piece of bad art, and waited for the end to come.

It is worth noting, good readers, that I survived this exploit, although how is a tale for another day. Oh, what torments my soul endured! What darkness I came to know!

(The figure sitting on the Bad Art above is I. Perhaps you thought it was some phantasm, some lonely spirit doomed to wander this evil place? No. Tis only I. But I have, through the use of an ingenious device called "Photoshop," blurred my form. I wish for my narrative to remain faceless. Call me weak, good readers, call me prideful, but I cannot bear to think of you judging me were you to see me in the street, to bump into me in a shop. It is enough that I share my shame with you here. Let me continue my quiet life for as long as I am able.)

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