The Empty Practice Room

The first time I truly understood what it meant to be watched was during my first year at Ironwood Academy. The campus was an old, sprawling estate converted into a school, and the first-year wing was on the top floor of the main building. Three classrooms lined one side, and at the far end, past the classrooms, was a wide, open space we used for dance and choir practice. Beyond that, a narrow staircase led down to the dormitories where the senior athletes stayed. My class was the middle one, so we were sandwiched between the other two.

One Tuesday night, our group was assigned as the classroom cleaners. There were five of us: me, Leon, Mira, Sasha, and Theo. It was around six in the evening, and the sun was already dipping low, casting long shadows through the tall windows. I had to see my student-teacher, Ms. Albright, about a project, and her room was on the second floor at the opposite end of the building. I asked Leon to come with me, mainly because I didn’t want to walk the dim, empty corridors alone.

We left the others and headed for the stairs. The main hallway lights were already off, and only a few emergency bulbs glowed dimly, casting everything in a sickly orange. The air was cool and still, and our footsteps echoed unnaturally loud on the marble floors. As we passed the practice room, I noticed something odd: the door was ajar, and through the gap, I saw a faint, flickering light, like a candle. I paused, but Leon nudged me forward. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with,’ he whispered, his voice hushed as if the building itself was listening.

We descended the stairs to the second floor. The hallway here was lined with faculty rooms, all dark except for a sliver of light under Ms. Albright’s door at the far end. As we walked, I could feel a presence behind us, like a cool breath on the back of my neck. I turned and saw nothing, but the sensation persisted. Leon was walking a few steps ahead, his shoulders tense. When we reached Ms. Albright’s room, he said he’d wait outside, leaning against the wall across from the door.

I knocked, and Ms. Albright’s voice called out for me to enter. Inside, the room was lit by a single desk lamp, casting a small island of light in the surrounding gloom. I handed her my project, and she flipped through it, occasionally glancing up at me with a scrutinizing eye. As she spoke about my work, I heard a sound from the hallway: a soft scraping, like something being dragged across the floor. I tried to focus on her words, but my mind kept drifting to that noise. When I finally left, Leon was gone.

I called his name, but the only response was the hum of the building’s old ventilation system. The hallway stretched empty in both directions, the doors shut, the lights flickering. I walked back toward the stairs, and as I passed the faculty lounge, I saw through the windowed door a figure inside: a tall, gaunt shape that stood perfectly still, facing a blank wall. It wasn’t Leon. It wore a tattered suit, and its head was tilted at an unnatural angle. I froze, my heart hammering. The figure didn’t move, but I swear I saw its fingers twitch. I forced myself to walk on, my eyes fixed ahead, refusing to look back.

When I reached the stairs, I took them two at a time, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I burst into the practice room on the third floor, hoping to find the others, but the room was empty. The floor-to-ceiling mirrors that lined one wall reflected only my own terrified face. The lights were off, but the faint candlelight glow I had seen earlier was now central, coming from a small oil lamp placed in the middle of the room. Next to it, on the scuffed wooden floor, lay a small, crumpled piece of paper. I picked it up. It was a note, written in shaky handwriting: ‘They’re in the walls. Don’t let them see you cry.’

Just then, I heard a low laughter, not from the room, but from inside the walls. It was a muffled, wet sound, like something struggling to breathe. I backed away, and the mirrors began to fog up, not with condensation, but with streaks that looked like fingerprints, moving across the glass as if cleaning it from the other side. I turned to run, but the door was gone. Where the door should have been, there was only a blank wall, painted with peeling, dark blue paint. I pressed my hands against it, feeling for a seam, but it was solid.

I spun around, and the oil lamp flickered, the flame turning a sickly green. In the mirrors, I saw reflections that didn’t match my movements. In one, I saw Leon, his face contorted in fear, standing behind me. In another, I saw Sasha, her eyes wide, whispering something I couldn’t hear. But when I turned to face them, nothing was there. The laughter grew louder, and the floor began to vibrate. The walls seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting slightly. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I whirled, but no one was behind me.

Then, as suddenly as it began, everything stopped. The laughter ceased, the walls stilled, and the door reappeared, slightly ajar. I stumbled through it, into the hallway, which was now fully lit. The others were there, standing by our classroom door, looking pale and shaken. Theo asked, ‘Where were you? We thought you got lost.’ I looked at them, but before I could speak, I saw that their reflections in the glass of the classroom door were not their own. They were faceless, with hollow black voids where their features should be. I blinked, and the reflections returned to normal.

I never told them what I saw that night. But after that, I noticed things. The practice room, which we used for rehearsals, always felt colder than it should. Corridors that were familiar now seemed to stretch longer, and shadows would shift in the corner of my eye. One day, I found the same note I had seen in the practice room, tucked under my textbook, the handwriting identical. It said: ‘They remember you. Be ready.’ The school never did anything about the strange occurrences. They said it was just old pipes and wind. But I knew better. It was that first encounter that taught me that some presences are more than just figments of imagination. They are patient, and they never truly leave, waiting for the moment you’re alone, waiting to remind you that you are not the only one in the building.