The Belgian block stones, laid by immigrants who were never permitted to walk upon them, formed the most enduring creation at the Ivy. The stones required little, if any, attention at all. To the administrators, the stones remained, largely due to the constant demand to recycle outdated campus infrastructure, victims of costly repairs, inefficient ventilation, or simply the need for more space. More importantly, to the faculty and students, they endured because of their stature.
For more than two centuries, the walking stretch known only as The Path has been the setting for every event of distinction since the university's inception. It has honored figures of greatness who traveled it, marked moments of glory, and stood as a silent testament to what the institution valued most: tradition.
The institution would never admit it, but every protest that unsettled the Ivy crossed this ground. When the outside world encroached on the grounds of higher education, The Path would be temporarily claimed by the student body, typically passionate undergrads, as an act of independence, often in the form of protest. The abolitionist movement. Women’s suffrage. Mobilizations during the two World Wars. Signs reading “Silence = Death” during the AIDS crisis. Even the occasional nude stroll.
To travel along this sacred space was an unspoken, honored tradition, burrowed into the marrow that defined one’s spirit of pride. Even among the Ivy faculty, whose interests didn’t always align with university policy, an old phrase persisted: “Always follow The Path,” passed on like a secret handshake to those willing to abide by the custom.
Still, there were always half a dozen individuals per year who fell from it, those who never made it to the other side. They remained, the ghosts. The Path was full of them: students who couldn’t cope with stress, faculty disgraced by scandal. Others were quieter: the almosts, the could-haves, the ones who buckled under pressure and didn’t make the grade.
You didn’t see them, but you felt them: spirits who didn’t moan or wear Victorian dress, nor claw at ankles, conjure up spells, or whisper threats. They watched. They stayed out of view but were always sensed like a cool breeze before a summer storm, especially under glowing stars topped by warm pink or orange light from Harvest or Strawberry moons which softened the look of the stones, making them almost flesh-like.
Others blamed the acoustics, that strange muffle underfoot, as if sound were absorbed instead of echoed. But there was more. Unwritten rituals that dictated how you walked, how you spoke, how your thoughts seemed to shift as you crossed. No one said it out loud. That would sound superstitious or sentimental. Any student who’d walked The Path after dark, any professor summoned before sunrise, any maintenance worker hauling heavy carts for an event—all felt it.
Clare Kelly stepped onto The Path in silence. She wore a Wisconsin State Bird sweatshirt with a mosquito graphic. Hood up. Hands in pockets. The ghosts stirred as she crossed. She didn’t notice but somehow felt an added weight to her soul. While most people saw The Path as pointing due north, the needle on Clare’s compass spun out of control.
Clare was stuck in the Ivy, her home for the last five years. How she ended up walking The Path’s stones was anyone’s guess. Whether from the cold or the earlier humiliation of the evening, things became muddled in her mind. Maybe the pool where she swam to clear her thoughts was closed. Still, it wasn’t a complete surprise because, inevitably, everyone ended up here. Everyone at the Ivy knew that in periods of confusion and angst, you never walked The Path without experiencing something: a hypnotic hush, a trance-like rhythm. You followed it. You didn’t stray.
It was history.
Now it was covered in shit. Goose shit.
Tiny greenish-black pellets littered the ground like cigar ash. If you weren’t careful, you could slip and be humbled. An open field, once home to geese, was under construction, soon to become the new Women’s Studies Building. The administration didn’t publicly discourage geese from moving to The Path. That would have created a PR spectacle for the university. After all, the geese had lived on Ivy land long before man had set foot and claimed it for his own.
The geese lived by a simple code of nature: stay in your lane, and we’ll stay in ours. Don’t violate their space. You’ll remain unbloodied. The fowl’s demand for respect never sat well with Ivy leadership. If anyone, human or animal, could not provide unyielding deference to the institution, they were better suited elsewhere. Respect and independence on equal terms weren’t tolerated.
Behind closed doors, the powers that be mapped out how to handle the pests quickly and covertly. Ivy operations crews applied egg oil with a thin euthanasia coating to the goose eggs. The old geese could live out their days on the grounds, but no new ones would be welcome.
Problem solved. Quietly. Efficiently. After the geese, the next to be handled was Clare. She had become their newest inconvenience at the Ivy.