The Dust Motes in Room 14

It was a dead Tuesday in late October, the kind of afternoon that made the campus feel like a ghost of itself. I was with four others: my friend Maya, her boyfriend Dev, another friend Rhea, and her boyfriend Arjun. Our lectures were cancelled, and the couples wanted some private time, so we decided to find an empty classroom in the old Science Block. The building had been slated for demolition for years, its corridors smelling of chalk dust and decay. We ended up in Room 14, a small lecture hall on the third floor, dusty and forgotten, with crooked benches and two wide windows that overlooked a courtyard of overgrown weeds.

Maya and I sat on the second bench, while Dev took the seat directly behind us. Rhea and Arjun were in the corner, lost in each other. I was bored out of my mind, so I rested my head on the desk, trying to nap. The sunlight slanted through the grimy windows, casting long shadows that danced with every shift of air. I was drifting in that half-sleep state when I heard a girl’s voice. It was crystal clear, as if she were sitting right beside me, whispering directly into my ear. But there was no one there.

The voice said, ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ It wasn’t threatening, just matter-of-fact, like a warning. I jerked awake, my heart pounding. I looked around the room. Maya was scrolling through her phone, Dev was doodling on the desk, and Rhea and Arjun were giggling. No one else was there. I chalked it up to my imagination, maybe a dream, and tried to sleep again. But the voice returned, this time more insistent: ‘This is my place. Leave.’

I sat up straight, my blood running cold. I asked Maya if she’d heard anything. She looked at me like I was crazy. ‘No, I didn’t hear anything. You’re just tired.’ But I knew what I’d heard. The voice was so clear. I decided to explore the classroom, maybe find the source. The room was small, but there were old filing cabinets in the back, covered in dust. I noticed something carved into the wooden desk where I had been sitting: ‘Sarah was here, 1998.’

Suddenly, the door slammed shut, and the temperature dropped. Everyone froze. Rhea whispered, ‘That was the wind, right?’ But the windows were shut tight. Then we heard it—a faint humming, like a lullaby. It came from the corner of the room near the windows. We all looked, but there was nothing. The humming grew louder, and I saw the dust motes in the sunlight start to swirl, forming a girl’s shape. A spectral figure materialized, a girl in an old uniform, her face pale, her eyes hollow. She pointed at me and said, ‘You can hear me. You must tell them to leave.’

I was frozen. Maya grabbed my arm, whispering, ‘What’s happening?’ The ghost girl floated closer. ‘I am Sarah. I died in this room in 1998. They found me here, after the accident. But they left me behind. They forgot me. I’ve been waiting for someone to hear me. You have to tell my story.’ Then she vanished, but the temperature didn’t return to normal.

We scrambled to the door, but it was locked. The voice echoed through the room: ‘You will not leave until you promise.’ I looked at my friends, their faces pale. I said, ‘We need to tell someone. We need to come back with help.’ But the ghost laughed, a hollow sound. ‘Not enough. You must stay. This is your grave now.’ The door creaked open on its own, and we ran out. We never went back to that building, but I still hear her voice sometimes, in the quiet moments, whispering, ‘Remember me.’