The Fading Wallpaper

In the autumn of 2009, I was a senior at Millbrook High, a sprawling brick institution with a clock tower that hadn’t worked in decades. My after-school activity was set design for the fall play, and on most days, I’d be alone in the drama room, the auditorium, and the adjacent art storage closet. The janitor, Mr. Halsey, would make his rounds with his rattling cart, humming old folk songs, but he kept to the corridors.

That particular Tuesday, I was tasked with touching up the backdrop: a twisted forest of dead trees and leafless branches that seemed to reach out from the canvas. I had just dipped my brush into the ochre paint when the temperature plummeted. My breath fogged, and the skin on my arms prickled. I looked up, expecting the tall windows to be ajar, but they were sealed tight, painted shut from years of neglect. I shrugged it off, thinking the old boiler had hiccuped, and returned to my work.

I painted a few strokes, but the silence was oppressive. Then, from beneath my feet, a hollow, resonant moan rose—like something vast and ancient waking from a long sleep. I froze, brush dripping onto the floor. The sound seemed to come from the basement, where the boiler room and old storage lockers sat. I decided to check, though my legs felt heavy, as if each step were resisted by unseen hands.

Halfway down the stairs, a flicker of movement caught my eye: through the doorway of the art storage closet, a pale, indistinct shape darted across the room. I pivoted, my heart pounding, and entered the storeroom. Shelves of paints, brushes, and half-finished canvases stood impassive. Nothing. I was about to retreat when a force slammed into my back, shoving me against a table, sending jars clattering. I spun, but no one was there. My first thought was a prank—some kid hiding, but the room was empty, and the door had been closed.

I scrambled out, my mind racing. Maybe it was the janitor playing a trick? But Mr. Halsey was a gentle man, never one for pranks. I decided to head upstairs to find him, but as I climbed, I heard rapid footsteps above—like a large animal crossing the hallway. I called out, ‘Mr. Halsey?’ No answer. The footsteps stopped, then resumed, heavier, as if something was running at full speed. I reached the top of the stairs and peered down the corridor. The lights flickered, and I saw a dark shape disappear around a corner.

I chased it, my shoes squeaking on the linoleum, but when I turned the corner, the hallway was empty. A door at the end slowly creaked open—the girls’ restroom. I hesitated. The door swung fully, and inside, the mirror reflected only me, pale and wide-eyed. But as I watched, my reflection’s mouth moved, forming words I couldn’t hear. I blinked, and it was normal.

I backed away, heart hammering, and that’s when I noticed the wallpaper. Along the wall where the corridor turned, the floral pattern seemed to blur, the roses bleeding into dark smears. I stepped closer, and the smudges resolved into letters, scrawled as if by a desperate finger: ‘GET OUT.’ I stumbled back, and the letters faded, the wallpaper returning to its mundane print.

I ran for the main doors, but they were locked—the security system engaged at 5 PM. I was trapped. I heard a low, guttural laugh, not human, echoing from the basement. I grabbed a fire extinguisher from its bracket, gripping it like a weapon. The footsteps returned, this time slow, deliberate, coming up the stairs. I pressed myself against the wall. The footsteps stopped right in front of me, though I saw nothing. Then, the air grew icy, and a whisper brushed my ear: ‘He liked the paint.’

I bolted. I didn’t know where I was going, but I ran down into the basement, reasoning that the attacker might follow. The basement was a maze of pipes and storage. I ducked into a room marked ‘Archives’ and huddled among dusty boxes. I heard footsteps above, creaking on the old floorboards. I held my breath. Then, the lights in the basement went out.

I was plunged into darkness. I fumbled for my phone, but it was dead. I felt around, my fingers brushing against something soft and fibrous—like dried skin. I recoiled. A faint, sickly sweet odor filled the air, and I heard a scratching sound, as if nails were raking across concrete. I crawled backward, my hand hit a wall, and I realized there was a small door behind me. I pushed it open and found a narrow stairwell leading further down.

I descended, each step echoing in the blackness. The air grew warmer, but not comforting. Suddenly, a dim light flickered ahead. In a cramped room, I saw an old janitor’s closet: mops, buckets, and a rusted cart. On the wall, written in what looked like dried blood, was a name: ‘Sarah.’ I recognized it from a story I’d heard—a girl who had disappeared from the school decades ago, her body never found.

Then, I heard a moan from behind a stack of boxes. I turned, and there was Mr. Halsey, his face pale, his eyes vacant. He walked toward me, his mouth open, but no sound came out. He raised a hand, and I saw it was covered in black, sticky residue. He grabbed my arm, and his grip was unyielding. ‘She’s still here,’ he whispered, his voice a rasp. ‘She wants you to finish the painting.’

I yanked free and ran, but the way back was blocked by a wall of shadows that seemed to pulse with intent. I turned back, and Mr. Halsey was gone. In the corner, a piece of fabric hung from a pipe—a girl’s scarf, faded and torn. I looked up, and the ceiling was covered in faint, ancient doodles: stick figures, flowers, and the phrase ‘I’m here’ repeated over and over.

A wave of nausea hit me. I realized I wasn’t alone in the traditional sense. The school itself was haunted, and the spirit of Sarah, the vanished girl, had latched onto anyone who painted in the drama room. The janitor, in his decades of service, had been her vessel, his mind slowly eroded.

I backed away, but a cold hand touched my shoulder. I spun, and for a split second, I saw a girl with black hair, her face cracked like old plaster, her eyes weeping dust. She smiled. ‘You’ll be my new keeper,’ she said, her voice like a record played too slow.

I screamed, and then I was outside, the cold night air slapping my face. The doors had unlocked themselves, and I tumbled onto the schoolyard. I didn’t look back. I ran all the way home, and I never painted again. I transferred schools, but sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear that hollow moan, and I see her face in the wallpaper of my room, begging me to return. The school was demolished a year later, but I know that some things are never truly buried. They just wait for a fresh canvas.