The Latch of Room 14

I never believed in ghosts. Not really. I figured that was something for old houses and creaky floorboards, not for a cheerful, sunlit preschool attached to St. Margaret’s Church. When I started as a traveling aide, the previous teacher, a woman named Janice, would wink at me and say, ‘This place is haunted, I swear.’ She had this dry, teasing humor, and I always laughed it off. My boss, Mrs. Calder, would roll her eyes and say, ‘Ignore her, please don’t quit.’ I thought it was just a rite of passage.

But then I got promoted. Lead teacher. My own classroom, Room 14. It was a bright, cozy space with a reading nook, a craft corner, and a row of windows looking out onto the church’s small garden. I loved it. But within a week, I started noticing things. I’m a stickler for organization. I had purchased my own combination locks for the low cabinets where I kept art supplies, snacks, and extra clothes. Every evening, I’d lock them, spin the dials, and double-check. Every morning, I’d unlock them and find that everything inside was… rearranged. Not missing, but moved. A box of crayons would be on top of the paper stack. A bag of goldfish crackers would be tucked behind the glue bottles. The first few times, I thought I was forgetting, or maybe the janitor was messing with me. But the locks were intact, the combinations were mine alone, and I never told anyone the codes.

One Tuesday, I decided to test things. I placed a single red crayon on the top shelf of the art cabinet, right in the center, and locked it. The next morning, I unlocked it to find the crayon lying on the floor of the cabinet, next to a stray package of construction paper. That was impossible. I felt a chill run down my spine. I told Mrs. Calder, but she just said, ‘Kids get in here sometimes? The room is locked at night, but maybe you left a window open?’ I hadn’t.

Then the whispers started. Not in my head, but in the room. Soft, low, like a child’s voice, but not quite human. I’d be setting up for the day, and I’d hear, ‘Hello?’ or ‘Can you help me?’ coming from the reading nook. I’d spin around, but there was no one. The children couldn’t have gotten in early; the doors were locked, and I was always first to arrive. Once, I heard a distinct giggle right next to my ear. I nearly dropped the stack of coloring books. I began to feel watched. The air would grow heavy, stale, as if someone was breathing close to my neck.

I tried to rationalize. Maybe it was the old pipes. Maybe the wind through the window frames. But then one afternoon, during naptime, I saw something. The children were on their mats, eyes closed. I was sitting at my desk, filling out forms. A shadow fell across the page. I looked up, and there was a small figure standing in the doorway. A boy, maybe four or five, in old-fashioned clothes—a little vest and shorts, like from a century ago. He just stood there, staring at me with hollow eyes. My heart froze. I blinked, and he was gone. I rushed to the door, but the hallway was empty.

I couldn’t keep this to myself. I told a colleague, a veteran teacher named Rosa, who had been there for twenty years. She paled. ‘You’ve seen him too,’ she whispered. ‘The little boy. He died in this room, back when it was a Sunday school class, maybe in the 1920s. I’ve heard stories, but I never saw him until last year. He just… appears. He likes to move things. He’s not evil, but he’s stuck.’ I felt a mix of terror and pity. ‘Why doesn’t anyone do anything?’ I asked. Rosa shrugged. ‘The church tries to have him move on, but he doesn’t. He just wants to play, I guess.’

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I researched the history of the school. I found an old newspaper article from 1924 about a boy named Walter who had died of pneumonia in Room 14, which was then a nursery for the church. It said he had been a quiet child, always drawing. A picture showed him with a sad smile.

The next day, I decided to try something. Instead of fighting I acknowledged him. I brought a new box of crayons and a blank sketchbook, and I placed them on the cabinet where he seemed to linger. I said out loud, ‘Walter, if you’re here, these are for you. I know you like to draw.’ I left the cabinet unlocked, which I had never done before.

The following morning, I unlocked the door with a strange mixture of fear and hope. The cabinet was open. Inside, on the sketchbook, was a drawing. It was crude, but clear: a child’s stick figure under a bright sun, with a tree. And beneath it, in wobbly letters, ‘Thank you.’ I felt a tear slide down my cheek. I still felt a chill, but it wasn’t so much fear as melancholy. He was just a boy.

From then on, I kept the cabinet stocked with paper and crayons, always leaving the lock off. The rearranging stopped. The whispers became softer, almost like a hum. The shadowy figure appeared less frequently, but sometimes I’d see him out of the corner of my eye, sitting in the reading nook, coloring. He looked happier.

But then, about a month ago, the drawing changed. One morning, I found a picture of the classroom, with all the children at their tables, and a dark figure hovering over them. The figure had red eyes. The next day, the whispers returned, but this time they were angry. ‘Go away,’ they hissed. ‘You don’t belong.’ I felt a cold dread. The shadowy boy I’d seen was gone, replaced by something else. The cabinet was locked again, though I hadn’t locked it. When I forced it open, the crayons were broken and scattered.

I told Mrs. Calder, but she was dismissive. ‘Maybe you’re under stress.’ I tried to talk to Rosa, but she was on vacation. I felt alone.

Last week, the children started acting strange. They would stare at the corner and giggle, but when I asked what they saw, they’d say ‘The man with the red eyes.’ I couldn’t sleep. I dreamt of a tall, thin figure, its face gaunt, its eyes like coals. It whispered, ‘You took my playmate.’

Now, I’m writing this from my car, parked outside the school. I called in sick, but I know I can’t avoid this forever. Room 14 is not just haunted—it’s divided. One spirit lingers in innocence, another in rage. And I’m caught between them, trying to keep the children safe. I’ve considered telling everyone, but who would believe me? A preschool teacher who talks to ghosts. I just hope the latch on the door—the one I always lock—holds. Because I don’t know what will happen if the red-eyed man gets out.