In Wellington, New Zealand, a unique and eerie experience unfolded in the corridors of the country’s parliament, drawing intrigue from its visitors. A woman, dressed in a spooky, veiled outfit, dashed out from an elevator, screaming—startling a small group gathered in the basement. Their guide, clad in a Victorian-style dress, reassured the attendees with a smile, suggesting they could take the elevator if they dared, though none accepted the offer.
The usual tours at Wellington’s parliament typically don’t feature tales of ghosts or mysterious happenings. However, on a special evening, the staff switched up their routine. Donned in Victorian-era costumes, guides shared the parliament building’s lesser-known, spine-chilling histories, blending factual events with legends passed down through the years by political staffers.
At the heart of this ghostly narrative is the parliament’s gothic library, steeped in tales of catastrophe and mystery. Built in the late 19th century, this library has endured the trials of two fires, a flood, and an invasion by feral cats. Known for its eerie aura, it’s a place feared by night-time security and cleaning staff alike.
With a dab of theatricality, Lisa Brand’s tour guides embraced their roles with gusto. Brand, with fake blood on her face, teased the visitors, encouraging a sense of suspense. She screamed her way through the vast parliamentary atrium, her voice echoing up to the lawmakers’ offices, thus explaining why these spooky tours are reserved for when parliament is not in session.
With its stained-glass windows, crystal chandeliers, and dark, historic architecture, the library presents a dramatic backdrop. Completed in 1899 and still in use by staff, it offers a haunting environment for those seeking information or solace. Visitors touring the building were greeted by spectral figures that seemed to glide ethereally, bringing the haunted reputation to life.
A particularly stormy event in the library’s history unfolded in 1968 when a violent storm hit Wellington. As part of the anecdote, visitors learned how librarians, caught by surprise, scrambled onto the roof during the tempest, curiously in their underwear, to save the integrity of the books. The anecdote garnered chuckles when the guide quipped about the tradition of losing one’s trousers in parliament.
The tour delved into more historical tales, such as the tragic story of William Larnach, a politician who died by suicide in parliament in 1898 amid personal and financial turmoil. His rumored spirit and the saga of his stolen skull, later found in a student’s room in 1972, adds to the folklore surrounding the building.
Another ethereal presence, it is said, is that of Ewen McColl, the original full-time librarian, whose overwork-linked death adds a melancholic note. Tales of paranormal activity persist in the building’s basement, where narrow corridors and low ceilings heightened the sense of the otherworldly. Frantic, unexplained noises added to the suspense.
The basement houses an extensive archive laden with history and peculiarities. Staff stories over the years include ghostly hands reaching out, echoes from empty bathrooms, apparitions in mirrors, and mysteriously opening doors. Even an immense cat and flea infestation in 1977 has become part of the building’s storied past.
As the tour concluded, visitors emerged into the dimly lit lobby, visibly rattled yet intrigued. Holly Masters, one participant, confessed to being pleasantly surprised by the dark stories attached to the familiar site of her youth. Another attendee, Sally Giles, expressed fascination with the haunting tales of former workers and their enduring legacies in the building.
By the following day, tour guides would resume their regular scripts, though the consensus was that the building’s eerie atmosphere is never fully gone. The sense of intrigue lingers, as a team leader, Brand, shared, noting that she feels a mysterious thrill every morning as she opens the tour route for the day.
