I was in third grade when I became afraid of the basement hallway. Our school was built long ago, first as a town hall, and the lower level felt ancient and cold. I was so nervous about going down there that I always asked my friend Leo to come with me.
One afternoon, we needed to return some books to the storage room. Leo waited by the door as I stepped inside. The single bulb overhead dimmed for a second, then glowed brightly again. My heart jumped. “Leo, did you see that?” I whispered.
He shrugged and said it was probably just a loose wire. I hurried out, my book stack wobbling. As I rushed down the corridor, a sudden coldness gripped me, starting at my neck and running all the way down my back. I froze.
Leo was still several steps behind me. That’s when I saw it—a tall, gray shadow that seemed to fold in on itself and vanish right into the concrete blocks of the wall. My breath caught in my throat.
I sprinted all the way to our classroom, my eyes wide. When I tried to tell our teacher what I saw, she calmly said, “There’s nothing in the hallway but old books and dust.” I know she said it to make me feel safe, but I also know what I saw.