The Green Note

I’ve been a student at Hollis Memorial for six years now, ever since my family moved to the old industrial district. The school is a hulking brick relic from the 1950s, with floors that creak in places no one walks and radiators that clank like bones in winter. But this year, something changed. Mr. Alders, the janitor who’d been there since before I was born, died of a heart attack in the boiler room last month. They found him with his mop still in his hand, and now there’s a new guy, but it’s not the same.

This morning, I got to school extra early because I had a report to finish. It was 6:45, and the halls were lit by that sickly fluorescent glow, half the tubes flickering like they were about to die. I was the only one in the ninth-grade wing, or so I thought. I sat down on the bench outside my homeroom, pulled out my binder, and started scribbling notes. That’s when I heard it—a whisper, soft and clear, like someone right beside my ear. It said my name, ‘Leah.’ Just once.

I looked up, expecting to see a teacher or another early bird, but the only other soul in sight was a boy sitting across the hall. He was hunched over a phone, but he wasn’t typing. He was just staring at it, unmoving. I figured he was just messing with me, so I went back to my work. A minute later, the voice came again, louder this time, more insistent. ‘Leah.’

I snapped my head up and glared at him. ‘Knock it off. It’s not funny.’ The boy lifted his face, and I saw he had these pale gray eyes that seemed to hold no light. He didn’t blink. He said, ‘Stop what? I’m not doing anything.’ His voice was flat, like he was reading a script. And that’s when I realized I’d never seen him before in my life. Not in this hallway, not in this school. He wore a faded green sweater, the kind you’d find in a thrift store, and his hair was the color of dead leaves.

My skin prickled. I tried to ignore him, but my hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold my pencil. I sat there, staring at my homework, trying to will him away. Twenty minutes passed. Nothing. The only sound was the hum of the lights and the distant thud of a door closing somewhere. At seven o’clock, I finished my report and glanced up. The boy was gone.

But on the bench where he’d been sitting, there was a small, folded note, the color of old parchment. I walked over, my heart hammering, and picked it up. It was written in shaky handwriting, almost childlike. It said: ‘Come to the boiler room after first bell. Don’t tell anyone.’ I didn’t know why, but I felt a pull, like something was waiting for me. I shoved the note in my pocket and went to class.

All morning, I couldn’t focus. The hallway by the boiler room was always dark and smelled of oil and burnt dust. The new janitor, Mr. Reeves, had complained that the door was jammed, but I knew the old trick—you had to lift the handle while turning the key. I’d seen Mr. Alders do it a hundred times. After third period, I slipped away during the chaos of hallway traffic. No one noticed.

The boiler room was freezing, the opposite of what you’d expect. The pipes were covered in frost, and the air smelled like rotten leaves. There, in the corner, was an old green metal locker that had been there forever, usually locked. But now, the door was slightly ajar. Inside, I found a stack of yellowed papers, tied with a red string. They were diary pages, dated from the 1970s. The first one read: ‘They say this school is haunted, but it’s just old pipes. But last night, I heard a boy crying in the walls. He said his name was Tommy. He said he’s been here since 1957. I promised I’d help him.’

I flipped to the last page. It was dated just a week ago, in handwriting I recognized—Mr. Alders’ cursive. ‘I’ve found the source. It’s the old well under the boiler. They sealed it years ago. Tommy fell in. He’s been calling for help, and only the ones who listen can hear him. But every time I get close, the voice gets louder, like it’s angry. I don’t think it’s a boy anymore.’

The pages ended there. I felt a cold breeze, and the door to the boiler room slammed shut with a boom that shook the floor. I spun around, and there he stood—the boy in the green sweater, but his face was pale, almost translucent, and his eyes were dark pits. He opened his mouth, but the voice that came out was not a boy’s. It was a rumble, like stones grinding. He said, ‘You found my letters. Now you have to take my place.’

I didn’t wait. I yanked the door, but it was locked from the outside. The lights flickered, and I heard a scraping sound from the floor. A trapdoor I’d never noticed was sliding open, revealing a dark hole. The stench of wet earth and decay rushed out. The boy smiled, but it wasn’t a smile. It was a tear in his skin, showing blackness behind. ‘They sealed the well, but you are here now. The note said come alone. You did.’

I scrambled backward, hitting my head on a pipe. The pain didn’t stop me. I think I screamed. I remember kicking the trapdoor shut, and the boy vanished. I ran out of the room, I don’t know how, but the door was open again. The hallway was silent. The bell rang for next period.

That was two days ago. Now, whenever I walk through the building, I hear that voice, but it’s not calling my name anymore. It’s calling for ‘Tommy.’ And sometimes, in the reflection of a window, I see a boy in a green sweater standing just behind my shoulder, mouthing words I can’t hear. I’m writing this down, but I know what it means. I took the note. I opened the locker. I read the letters. And now, every night, I dream of a well, and I hear a child’s voice whisper, ‘You’ll be my friend forever.’ I don’t know how long I can resist. The new janitor asked me why I keep staring at that spot on the floor. I didn’t tell him. I can’t. He’d never believe the truth.

Tonight, I’m going back to the boiler room. I have to end this. I just hope I don’t become another page in that locker.