The Man in the Gallery

In the autumn of my final year at Westbrook Comprehensive, the drama department moved into the newly refurbished annex. The old theatre, with its creaking floorboards and faded velvet curtains, was abandoned, but the new studio had a mezzanine gallery that overlooked the stage. It was meant for tech and lighting, but for most of us, it was just a dusty ledge where forgotten props and costumes piled up.

Our drama teacher, Ms. Hargreaves, was a twitchy woman with a fondness for improvisation and an unsettling habit of staring at empty spaces. One rainy Tuesday, she froze mid-lecture, her eyes fixed on the gallery. ‘Who’s up there?’ she snapped. We all turned, but saw nothing. She insisted she saw a man in a long coat, sitting on a crate, watching us. He vanished when she blinked. We laughed it off as a trick of the light, but her face was white. From that day, she always made us sit with our backs to the gallery.

It became a game. My friend Danny drew a crude face on a cardboard box and placed it on the gallery railing, and we’d take turns pointing at it and gasping. I pretended to find it funny, but something about that high, dark space made my skin crawl. I never once looked up. I’d rather stare at the scuffed floor than risk catching a glimpse of what might be there.

By Christmas, the joke was old, and we forgot about Ms. Hargreaves’s ghost. The box face got knocked over during a scene rehearsal and was shoved under a piano. The studio became just another room. That was until I started staying late for tutoring sessions. My grades were slipping, and my maths teacher, Mr. Osei, agreed to give me extra help on Thursday evenings. The school emptied by five, and the hallways grew dim and silent.

One evening, I finished early and wandered into the drama studio, which was left unlocked. I wanted to run through a monologue for an upcoming exam. The lights were off, but a high window let in a slice of orange sunset, casting long shadows. I climbed onto the stage, my voice echoing off the bare walls. I was halfway through a speech when I heard a sound from above—a faint scraping, like a chair being dragged across wood.

I froze. The gallery was hidden in darkness. I convinced myself it was a pigeon on the roof. I continued, louder, but the scraping grew more insistent, followed by a rhythmic tapping, like a finger on a wooden rail. My throat tightened. Then silence. I looked up, my eyes straining to pierce the gloom. There, just at the edge of the gallery, a shape—a figure—sat motionless, watching me. I couldn’t make out details, only a long, dark coat and a pale, indistinct face.

I stumbled backward, dropping my script. The figure didn’t move. ‘Hello?’ I called, my voice shaky. No response. I backed out of the studio, my heart pounding, and slammed the door. I ran down the corridor, nearly colliding with Mr. Osei, who was carrying a stack of papers. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ he joked. I forced a laugh, but I couldn’t shake the image. I never stayed late again.

Weeks passed, and I tried to rationalize it. It was probably a coat rack or a stack of costumes. But then Danny told me he’d left his phone charger in the studio and went to retrieve it one evening. When he came back, he was pale. He said he saw the same face—the one from the box—but it was real, staring down at him from the gallery. He thought someone was pranking him, but there was no one else in the building. The next day, we found the painted box in its original spot on the gallery, as if it had been carefully replaced. No one admitted to moving it.

A rumor started that the old theatre’s caretaker, a man named Mr. Grimes, had died years ago, right after the building was condemned. He used to watch rehearsals from the gallery, never saying a word. Some said he was a bitter man who resented the students, and he’d come back to keep an eye on things. I didn’t want to believe it, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.

One Thursday, I decided to face my fear. I waited until the school was empty, then crept back to the studio. I left the lights off, trying to see in the dim glow of the emergency exit sign. I climbed the spiral stairs to the gallery, my footsteps echoing. At the top, I saw the source of the scraping—a discarded wooden chair, rocking slightly, as if just vacated. The air was cold, and my breath fogged.

I turned to leave, and that’s when I saw him. A man in a long Victorian coat, his face gaunt and gray, standing at the far end of the gallery. He wore a top hat, and his eyes were black pits. He pointed at me, a long, bony finger, and his lips moved, but no sound came out. I stumbled back, but my foot caught on a cable, and I fell. I scrambled to my feet, but he was gone. Only a single, old photograph lay on the floor—a faded image of the studio from a hundred years ago, with a group of actors, and in the gallery, the same man, watching.

I didn’t tell anyone about the photograph. I threw it away, but I kept thinking of his face. It was the same face I saw in my nightmares. The box face, the drawing, Ms. Hargreaves’s sighting—they all matched. He was real, and he was patient. He had been there all along, waiting for someone to acknowledge him.

Now, I refuse to go anywhere near the gallery. But sometimes, when I’m walking home, I’ll glance at the school building, and for a split second, I’ll see a shadow in the high window. And I know he’s still there, watching. Waiting for the next person to look up.