The Projectionist’s Apprentice

The first chill came during third period algebra, a sudden dead cold that prickled my skin like frost forming on a window. I sat beside my friend, a lanky kid named Danny, and we both felt it at the same moment. Our breath fogged, and I could see his teeth chatter as he turned to me, eyes wide. The teacher droned on about variables, but the room around us seemed to dim, as if the fluorescent lights flickered with a second heartbeat. Nobody else noticed; they just scribbled notes. That’s when I knew my grandmother’s stories were true. She used to say I had the sight, a gift she called it, but at fourteen, I’d always laughed it off as folklore. Now, with my skin crawling and the taste of copper on my tongue, I felt anything but special.

By the time the bell rang, the cold had faded, and I convinced myself it was just a draft from the old building. The last two periods were Drama, a class I loved. The theater room was our sanctuary—a black-box space with worn velvet seats and a high, dusty control booth at the back. Our teacher, Mrs. Alvarez, was a stickler for lighting cues, and today she asked me to run up to the booth and flip the main switch. ‘The lights are being finicky again,’ she said, handing me the key. I bounded up the narrow staircase, the metal steps clanging under my sneakers, and pushed open the door.

The booth was smaller than I remembered, cramped with a console of dimly lit buttons and a small window overlooking the stage. The air was stale, cool, and carried a faint smell of ozone. As I reached for the switch, I froze. In the reflection of the glass, a figure stood behind me—a tall, gaunt silhouette, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. I spun around, heart hammering, but the booth was empty. I felt a presence, a weight pressing down on me, and the cold returned, sharper than before, biting through my jacket. My breath came out in puffs. I couldn’t stay in that room. I flicked the switch blindly and scrambled back down the stairs, gasping.

Mrs. Alvarez looked at me, concerned. ‘You’re pale as a ghost,’ she said. I shrugged it off, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed me down. For the rest of class, we practiced a scene, and I kept glancing at the booth. The figure was there again, pressed against the glass, its hand raised as if pointing at me. I tried to focus on my lines, but every time I looked up, it was still there, motionless, patient. When the final bell rang, I was the first out the door, not bothering to say goodbye to Danny, who was already lost in his phone.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The image of the figure was burned into my mind, its dark form more a suggestion of a person than a real one. I lay in bed, listening to the hum of my ceiling fan, when I heard a faint clicking from the hallway—like a projector ratcheting through frames. My door creaked open, and a sliver of light from the hallway spilled in, but there was no one there. I sat up, heart pounding, and saw a shadow stretch across the floor, moving toward my bed. I squeezed my eyes shut, whispering my grandmother’s prayer, and when I opened them, the shadow was gone.

The next day, I skipped Drama. I hid in the library, pretending to study, but my mind kept returning to the booth. At lunch, Danny cornered me. ‘Dude, you missed the best part. Mrs. Alvarez said the projector in the booth has been acting up—it started projecting old film reels on its own. She thought it was you playing a prank.’ I laughed nervously, but a cold dread settled in my stomach. I knew it wasn’t a prank. That night, I told my mom about the chill and the figure, and she dismissed it as teenage angst, but I saw the fear in her eyes. She knew about the gift too.

A week passed, and the incidents grew subtle. I’d catch glimpses of the figure in mirrors, always a step behind me. My grades slipped because I couldn’t concentrate, always listening for that phantom clicking. Then, on a Friday, Mrs. Alvarez pulled me aside after class. ‘There’s something I need to show you,’ she said, her voice uncharacteristically serious. She led me to the booth, and for the first time since that day, I stepped inside. The room was empty, but the air was heavy, and I felt a presence surround me. She pointed to a dusty projector in the corner, its lens covered in cobwebs. ‘This was here when I started teaching,’ she said. ‘It’s been broken for years, but last night, it ran on its own. I filmed it.’ She pulled out her phone and showed me a video: the projector whirring, light flickering, and on the wall, a single word written in dust: ‘WAIT.’

I felt the cold again, stronger, and my teeth began to chatter. Mrs. Alvarez looked at me with a knowing gaze. ‘You feel it too,’ she said. ‘This building has history. There was a student here decades ago who died in this booth—a final project that went wrong, they said. Since then, every few years, someone with the sight gets chosen to see him. He wants to be remembered.’ I stared at her, horror and pity twisting in my chest. ‘Why me?’ I asked. She shrugged. ‘Maybe because you saw him and didn’t run forever. He’s lonely, I think. But there’s a way to end it. He needs you to complete his last film—a documentary he never finished. The reel is in the projector. If you play it to the end, he’ll move on.’

I didn’t want any part of it, but the hauntings grew stronger. I’d wake with scratches on my arms, and in class, I’d hear my name whispered in a raspy voice. Finally, I agreed. One evening, after school, Mrs. Alvarez and I climbed to the booth. The projector was humming, its beam slicing through the dark. I pressed a button, and the reel began to spin. Images flickered on the wall: a school talent show, a science fair, and then—a boy, my age, with sad eyes, standing alone on a stage. He mouthed something I couldn’t hear, and then the film went black. The projector clicked off, and I felt a weight lift. The booth felt ordinary again, the cold gone.

Mrs. Alvarez smiled, relieved. ‘You did it,’ she said. But as we walked away, I glanced back at the projector, and I swear I saw a new reel loading itself. The lens glowed, and a single frame projected on the wall: a figure, thin and dark, standing in the booth, watching me leave. I turned away and never entered that theater again, but sometimes, in the darkest hours, I hear the clicking of a projector from my hallway, and I know the show isn’t over.