Hundreds of people crowded a quiet Indiana Memorial Union on Saturday, the silence broken only by the squeaking of wet shoes on stone floors. Groups of people waited, shoulder to shoulder, for the vigil commemorating Gamma Phi Beta senior Hannah Wilson, who was found dead Friday.
The door to Alumni Hall cracked open, just for a moment. A single sob rang out from inside.
The line to Alumni Hall stretches through the IMU, winding past Starbucks and the Tudor Room and trailing off past Whittenberger Auditorium. Women huddle, heads on shoulders. Some cry and some smile weakly.
Ten minutes before the event was scheduled to begin, one heavy wooden door was pushed open and people began to funnel slowly into Alumni Hall. They were ushered to the front of the room, packing the room to capacity. People poured into the adjacent Solarium, but hundreds were unable to get in.
Gamma Phi Beta sisters, standing on a stage lined with tissue boxes, held each other closely, arms linked. On the far left side of the stage, women crowded around a portrait of Wilson. In it, she’s smiling.
In the middle of the room, a man in a plaid shirt stood alone. He looked down to wipe his eyes with his palms. A girl near him hugged everyone around her, eyes glassy and bottom lip quivering.
After an introduction from Panhellenic Association President Margaret Hensley, Wilson’s two best friends approached the podium to speak.
Their words, clear messages of love and support, were quickly muffled by their sobs.
“I can’t wait until the day I can laugh with my Hannah Banana again,” one says.
Her other friend holds her waist, never letting go. She tells a story about the last picture she and Wilson had taken together, hours before she went missing.
“It was with a man dressed as Captain Morgan,” she said, prompting laughter from the crowd in Alumni Hall. She laughs through her tears. “She was so happy!”
Outside Alumni Hall, people packed into the IMU, lines stretching out every nearby entrance. Upstairs, the line winds back to the Biddle Hotel. It snakes down limestone steps and through the ?IMU Commons.
Nobody outside the hall can hear the speeches. They hush each other and crane their necks, trying to see. Someone opens the remaining doors to Alumni Hall so people can hear, but it doesn’t help.
Downstairs, the line was still hushed into silence. People didn’t have a stage to look at, so they just stared straight ahead.
Grace Carlson, a member of Phi Mu, said she was at the vigil to support Wilson and her family through the tough time. Several people said they were present because they were in the greek system, and they needed to be.
“Feelings,” Erin Stump, who’s in Alpha Sigma Alpha, said. “I just wanted to be a part of all this.”
Inside, another girl stood at the podium. She was talking about how just days ago, Wilson had been saying she could never understand why anyone wouldn’t live every day like it was their last.
Toward the front of the room, a girl wailed. More sobs followed.
One friend stepped forward and apologized for not having any appropriate stories to share with the group, which roused another subdued laugh from the crowd. She said she’d moved away last semester and was happy her last goodbye with Wilson was a heartfelt one.
“I’m sorry I can’t make you laugh right now,” ?she said.
A balloon release followed the vigil, and Gamma Phi sisters led the way through Alumni Hall and out to the IMU’s terrace, where they held dozens of green and purple balloons.
“We lift up the balloons as she lifted up those around her,” a sister said of Wilson.
The crowd followed slowly, ushered by several woman, one of whom stopped directing. Her eyes, rimmed with red circles from crying, were fixed straight ahead. Her face was expressionless.
Outside, the crowd filled the terrace, some people standing on tables to get a better look at the release.
“One, two, three,” the sisters outside chanted, and let go of the balloons ?simultaneously.
Inside the IMU, a group of five men huddled together, arms around each other’s shoulders and heads down.
A student leaned against a wooden pillar, her friend looping an arm around her shoulder. Her green windbreaker was falling off her shoulder, but she didn’t try to fix it. She couldn’t keep up with her tears; she stopped wiping them from her cheeks minutes ago.
Outside, the balloons broke free from each other. All were gone but one purple balloon, which lagged behind, struggling to lift as high as the others. Everybody watched it climb.
At 5:29 p.m., the purple balloon disappeared.
A minute later, at 5:30 p.m., the Student Building clock tower rang.
There was pause, and the crowd was gone.
Kathrine Schulze, ?Michael Hughes and ?Brody Miller contributed reporting to this story.
