The Gilded Hall Monitor

In the autumn of 2012, my dance troupe rented out the old Whitmore Academy for a weekend rehearsal. The school had been closed for years, but the owner, a gaunt man with a perpetual sniffle, let us use the main hall for a modest fee. We were sixteen teenagers, fueled by cheap energy drinks and the thrill of being somewhere we shouldn’t. The building smelled of dust and mothballs, with long corridors lined with faded portraits of stern-faced headmasters. Our practice ran late into the night, the only light coming from the stage’s work lamps, casting long, dancing shadows on the peeling walls.

During a water break, my friend Mira and I plopped down on the edge of the stage, our legs dangling over the polished wooden floor. The others were stretching or scrolling through their phones. I felt a chill, distinct from the autumn air, as if a window had been cracked open behind us. A constant stream of cold air kissed the backs of our necks, rhythmic and swift, like someone was sprinting back and forth along the back wall. I turned, but saw nothing but the darkened gymnasium and the row of high windows. Mira whispered that she felt it too. Our choreographer, a wiry man named Leo, called for an early break and approached us, his face pale. ‘You feel it, don’t you?’ he said, his voice low. ‘They’re just curious. The little one likes to run. Ignore them, and they’ll lose interest.’ He walked away before we could ask anything else.

We tried to shake it off, but the air never warmed. An hour later, we paused again, and I wiped sweat from my brow, glancing up at the library, a glass-walled room overlooking the hall. Inside, a faint, glowing figure hovered near the bookshelves. It was a woman, dressed in a flowing gown, her features hazy except for her eyes, which burned with a cold, piercing light. She was staring straight at us. I couldn’t look away. Mira gripped my arm. ‘What are you looking at?’ she hissed. I pointed a trembling finger. She followed my gaze and froze.

The woman began to drift closer to the glass, and I saw her mouth move, forming words I couldn’t hear. The air around us turned frigid, and the stage lights flickered. Leo shouted for everyone to gather. He looked up at the library window and crossed himself. ‘It’s the old headmistress,’ he said. ‘She drowned in the pool back in the 70s. They say she haunts the school, watching over the students.’ But her gaze was fixed on me, and it felt less like guardianship and more like judgment. The cold air intensified, swirling around us as if the runner had now joined us on stage. I heard a child’s giggle, sharp and hollow, right behind my ear.

We fled the building, piling into cars without grabbing our bags. As I drove away, I saw the woman in the library window, her hand pressed against the glass, her eyes still glaring. That night, I dreamt of the school, of walking down its corridors alone. In the library, the woman waited, and the child’s laughter echoed from the stacks. In the dream, she spoke to me, her voice like rattling chains. ‘You saw me,’ she said. ‘Now you must remember.’

I woke with a start, and for weeks, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. I never returned to Whitmore Academy. But sometimes, when the air stills, I feel a cold breath on my neck, and I see the glint of those eyes, promising that our visit was only the beginning. The gilded hall monitor had found a new student to watch over.