The Drag of the Slippers

It was the first night of the music retreat at Maplewood Secondary, a sprawling campus tucked into the hills of northern New Jersey. The school was nearly empty for the holiday break, and the only building open for us was the old arts wing, a two-story brick structure with creaking floors and windows that rattled in the wind. The second floor had been sealed off for years, doors chained, windows boarded, and a faded sign warning ‘DO NOT ENTER’ in peeling red letters. That was where the seniors said the ghost lived. They called her ‘The Walker,’ a former music teacher who died in a fire back in the 70s, and they swore that if you heard the slow drag of slippers on the linoleum corridors, she was coming for you.

I tried not to let the stories get to me, especially with my best friend Mia by my side. We had claimed our sleeping bags in the middle of the front classroom, a long rectangular space with chairs and desks shoved against the windows, leaving a narrow aisle in the center. The other girls from our section were spread out in two rows, like sardines in a can, and the only light came from a single bulb in the hallway leaking under the door.

At lights-out, the room fell into a nervous hush. Some girls whispered, others giggled, but most just lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. I remember counting the cracks in the plaster, trying to slow my heart. Just as I was drifting off, a sound cut through the silence: a soft, shuffling scrape, like something heavy being dragged across concrete. It came from the corridor outside, moving slowly from the stairs toward our room.

I froze, my breath caught in my throat. Beside me, Mia’s hand found mine, squeezing tight. The shuffling grew closer, each drag punctuated by a faint thump, like a heel dropping. Then it stopped right outside our door.

The doorknob turned. I saw it, a dull glint in the dim light, as it rotated slowly to the left, then back to the right. A long, agonizing creak. Then silence. We waited, not daring to move, and after a minute, the shuffling started again, moving away.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. ‘Probably a raccoon,’ Mia whispered, but her voice trembled. I nodded, though I didn’t believe it. The sound had been too deliberate, too rhythmic.

We managed to sleep after that, or at least I did, until a scream jolted me awake. It was the middle of the night, and the room was a chaos of panicked voices. One of the girls, Sarah, was pointing at the far window. ‘I saw a face,’ she said. ‘A face pressed against the glass, white and hollow-eyed.’

Everyone crowded to the window, but there was nothing there, just the dark reflection of our own frightened faces. The teachers, who had been sleeping in the next room, came in with flashlights and told us to calm down, that it was just a dream. But as they left, I noticed something on the sill: a wet footprint, too small for any of us, and the faint smell of smoke.

The rest of the night was a blur of restless whispers and shadows dancing in the corner of my eye. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard that shuffling again, or imagined the creak of the door. At dawn, as the first gray light seeped through the blinds, we all gathered our things, eager to leave that room.

But as we filed out into the corridor, we saw it: a trail of wet footprints leading from the stairwell to our door, then turning and heading back toward the blocked stairs. And at the end of the trail, where the darkness swallowed the hall, there was a faint smudge on the floor, as if something had been dragged there.

We never went back to that wing. The retreat was moved to the gymnasium, and the incident was hushed up. But from that night on, whenever I walk through Maplewood’s halls, I find myself listening for that sound. And sometimes, in the quietest moments, I swear I can still hear it: the slow, patient drag of slippers, coming closer.