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  • (ominous music)

  • - [Narrator] I never got used to the missing posters.

  • Those photocopied faces staring back at me

  • as I locked up my classroom

  • and headed down the darkened school hallway

  • of the prestigious school of Avon Manor.

  • It was late, but extra work meant extra hours,

  • which meant extra money.

  • Teachers always needed that,

  • and lowly teacher's assistants like me,

  • we needed it even more.

  • I finished my grading and left the classroom,

  • walking the darkened hallways of the school.

  • Only the glow of the exit sign to lead my way.

  • It should have been scary, but I was too tired

  • to bother being spooked by the shadows

  • or the echo of my footsteps.

  • I passed the bulletin board where pictures

  • of the missing teachers adorned posters hung haphazardly.

  • I was used to seeing missing children

  • on milk cartons and news reports,

  • but normal, full-grown adults

  • who've just up and disappeared?

  • That was another feeling altogether.

  • There was one for Mr. Lescham,

  • the boisterous music teacher that I knew

  • liked to humiliate his students for menial errors.

  • And another for the missing gym teacher, Mr. Morrow,

  • a man that took sadistic pleasure in driving students

  • to total exhaustion for the fun of it.

  • Then a flash of movement startled me.

  • It was a student walking at the other end

  • of the hall with her back to me.

  • Hard to see in the dim light,

  • but I could have sworn she had something in her hand.

  • I called out to her, "excuse me, young lady,

  • "school's closed, you can't be here."

  • I hurried after her, reaching the corner,

  • but she had already made her way though a door

  • down to the basement under the school,

  • where holiday decorations and props

  • from old school plays were kept.

  • Annoyed, I walked after the student, calling out again,

  • "miss, stop what you're doing this instant!"

  • Even though I was just a TA,

  • I figured I had enough authority

  • to stop a kid from skulking around after-hours.

  • But still, no answer.

  • Now she had wounded my pride, so I stalked after her,

  • down into the basement, the walls wet with moisture

  • from the rusty pipes, and the old brick walls

  • from the original foundation.

  • That was a simpler time, I thought,

  • when children listened to their elders.

  • I stumbled past old decorations from school spirit week,

  • then past the old art supplies.

  • I could just see the shadows of the girl moving ahead.

  • If this was a prank, someone was going to get

  • in so much trouble, maybe even expelled.

  • Then, I saw them.

  • I dropped my cell phone, its light swirling madly

  • as it spun on the floor, my breath caught in my throat.

  • I had found the missing teachers.

  • Mr. Morrow, the boarish gym teacher,

  • swung from the pipes overhead,

  • choked by his own jump-ropes, hands and feet bound.

  • He'd been hog-tied and left to swing,

  • his face purple and bloated, tongue turning black

  • from the weeks spent rotting from a rope.

  • His lips had pulled back as he began to decay,

  • revealing rotten teeth clenched tight for eternity.

  • Next to him was the body of Mr. Lescham,

  • the music teacher who hated wrong notes so much

  • he'd rap the students with his conductor's baton.

  • I was horrified as I looked into his glassy eyes,

  • his body propped against the wall.

  • The baton had been jammed straight from one ear

  • to the other, dried blood crusted down the side of his head.

  • All I could think of as the bile rose in my throat

  • was the last thing he must have heard

  • was his own eardrums rupturing and the scraping of the wood

  • as it was driven into his brain.

  • Then I heard the whimper, an old, frail voice I recognized.

  • Mrs. Madison.

  • "Please, I didn't mean to be cruel, I...

  • "I just wanted to..."

  • But a wet squishing sound cut her off,

  • turning her voice into a pained squeal.

  • I crept forward, peering around the corner,

  • where I finally saw her, the body of Miss Madison,

  • with 100 pencils jammed into her,

  • her eyes, her mouth, her throat and lungs,

  • each one had sticky, blackened blood all around it.

  • Clearly someone had been at this for a while.

  • The dark figure I had followed down here

  • was standing over her, having come to finish

  • what it had started.

  • That was when I realized who I had been trailing.

  • I heard her before I saw her clearly,

  • that low wheezing sound, her breathing,

  • the "shhk-shhk" of her field hockey stick

  • dragging along the ground.

  • The dark figure raised a final pencil over its head,

  • then brought it right down between Mrs. Madison's eyes.

  • (screaming)

  • Finally killing her.

  • My stomach tightened.

  • I knew what would happen when the figure turned around.

  • I was dead.

  • My lips quivered, tears in my eyes

  • as the shadow slowly shifted to look at me.

  • I heard the swinging of the hockey stick,

  • the old wood slicing through the air

  • as it swung towards my jugular vein,

  • ready to hack my head from my body.

  • But then, no pain came.

  • No bloody, gruesome death.

  • I wasn't dead.

  • I could feel something hard pressed against my throat,

  • keeping me from begging for my life,

  • from crying, or from screaming.

  • I didn't want to open my eyes, but I knew I had to.

  • I could hear her, right in my ear,

  • wet and raspy breathing so close

  • I could smell that fetid breath, sticky-sweet like roadkill.

  • I opened my eyes, and there she was beside me,

  • hockey stick held against my throat: Shelly.

  • All she had to do was twist the handle

  • and she'd rip out my esophagus,

  • pull the air right out of me.

  • With any luck, she'd break my neck

  • and I wouldn't feel anything.

  • Shelly raised her hand, fingernails black and rotten,

  • skin pale as cream, veiny and thin.

  • With a twitching jerk, she pointed to the wall.

  • Terrified to twist my head for fear of losing it,

  • I struggled to see what was written

  • on the wall deep in the basement.

  • My eyes were losing focus, the oxygen escaping me

  • as the hockey stick pushed against my neck.

  • Finally, what was on the wall became clear in the darkness,

  • written in chalk and blood, smeared along old brick.

  • I saw what was written.

  • Then as quick as she came, Shelly was gone.

  • I fell to the ground, knees giving way.

  • As soon as I could stand, I ran from that basement,

  • never looking back.

  • She could have chased me,

  • I could feel her watching me as I left.

  • I have never told anyone this story.

  • I've kept Shelly's secret.

  • That's why she let me live, I think,

  • to keep her secret, and to remember.

  • I still teach these days, and have for many years.

  • Once Mrs. Madison was gone, I got the promotion

  • to full-time teacher I knew I deserved.

  • Same classroom, same course, same books and lessons.

  • But whenever I find myself angry at the students,

  • ready with a mean comment or a cruel punishment,

  • I remember what Shelly had written

  • on the wall of the basement all those years ago.

  • Teachers can be bullies, too.

(ominous music)

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