The Empty Hall Monitor

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve felt like there was a thin veil between me and the world of the dead. It’s not something I talk about. My house creaks at night, and sometimes I see a flicker of a shape in the corner of my eye. I chalked it up to an overactive imagination, a side effect of too many horror movies. But lately, the whispers have grown louder.

I take the bus to school, the later one, so I arrive with the familiar crowd. But last Friday, the bus broke down, and I had to take the early one. There were only a handful of us: me and a couple of first-graders, their faces still puffy with sleep. The school was a ghost town. The janitor was mopping the main hall, and the smell of bleach hung in the air.

My homeroom is on the second floor, a long climb up a winding staircase. As I started up, I heard footsteps behind me—a soft, rhythmic patter, like someone walking two steps behind. I turned, expecting to see the janitor or a student, but the stairs were empty. I shrugged it off, blaming the acoustics, and continued.

At the top, a long hallway stretched before me, lined with lockers and doors. At the far end, two figures stood side by side. My heart skipped—I thought it was my friend Mel and her brother, Nate. They always came early. I raised my hand and yelled, ‘Hey, Mel!’

But they didn’t wave back. They stood still, as if frozen. I squinted, but the light from the windows created a glare. I took a few steps forward, and they vanished. Just like that. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and the hall was empty.

I told myself it was fatigue, the early morning, the sleepless night before. I walked to my locker, trying to shake off the unease. As I spun the combination, I noticed a faint, cold draft. And then I saw them again, out of the corner of my eye, further down the hall, now closer. Two figures, one tall, one short, both in dark hoods. They didn’t move, just watched.

I slammed my locker shut, my heart pounding. I turned to face them, but they were gone. The hall was empty. I forced a laugh, called myself a coward, and walked to my homeroom. But as I passed the bathroom, I saw a reflection in the mirror—two silhouettes behind me. I spun, but there was no one.

For the rest of the day, I couldn’t concentrate. I kept glancing over my shoulder. At lunch, I told Mel, but she laughed. ‘You’re just tired, babe. You saw a couple of kids messing around.’ But I knew what I saw. The figures weren’t kids. They were tall, almost adult-sized, and they had a subtle distortion around them, like heat waves on a summer sidewalk.

That evening, I decided to stay after school for a club meeting. When I walked out, it was dusk. The campus was dark, the only lights flickering in the gym. I took the shortcut through the old wing, which is always too cold. Halfway down the corridor, I heard the footsteps again—fast this time, coming from behind. I ran. I didn’t stop until I reached the bus stop.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house creak. At 3:33 AM, I heard a voice, a child’s voice, whisper my name. I turned on the light, and in the corner of my room, a small figure stood, its face obscured by shadow. I blinked, and it was gone.

I’m writing this now, the next morning, as I wait for the bus. I’m dreading going to school. I told Mel I’d switch to the early bus permanently, thinking daylight might help. But as I saw the bus approaching, I had an idea. I took out my phone and looked up the history of the school. There was a fire in 1978. A classroom on the second floor burned down. Two children, a brother and sister, were trapped and died.

My blood ran cold. The hallway where I saw the figures was the one where the classroom used to be before they rebuilt. The description matched: a tall older brother and a shorter younger sister. I don’t believe in coincidences anymore.

As I stepped onto the bus, I resolved to confront them. Maybe they’re not evil. Maybe they just want to be seen. But as the bus pulled away, I looked out the window and saw the two figures standing at the front gate of the school, watching me. They raised a hand, as if waving goodbye. And then, slowly, they faded.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to ignore them again. But maybe, just maybe, I can learn to live with the dead. Or maybe, they want me to help them move on. I’ll find out tomorrow, when I go back. But I’m not going alone. I’m bringing a camera.