The school stood at the edge of town, where streetlights thinned and silence pressed close. Hollowridge School had closed years ago after a string of incidents no one described plainly. Still, its windows caught the moonlight like open eyes that refused to blink.
Weeds swallowed the playground. Paint peeled in long strips from the walls. Yet the building never felt empty. Old timetables still listed certain rooms as occupied, though no one had studied there in years.
It felt watchful.
I learned that on the night I stayed too long—waiting for a final bell that was never meant to ring again.
Hollowridge School After Midnight
I only meant to cut across the grounds. It was the fastest way home.
The air thinned as soon as I stepped onto the cracked pavement. The wind lost its edge. Insects fell silent. My footsteps echoed a second too late, as if the ground considered whether to return the sound.
I slowed.
The front doors stood slightly open.
Chains had sealed them shut for years. I remembered rattling them once on a dare. Now they parted wider when I approached, hinges breathing out a slow, patient sigh.
I should have left.
Instead, I crossed the threshold.
The Halls of Hollowridge School
Chalk dust and mildew lingered in the hallway. Lockers lined the walls, dented and scratched, names fading into the metal. Moonlight slipped through broken windows and stretched the shadows thin.
The bell rang.
Once.
Clear. Close.
The sound settled deep in my chest and stayed there.
A locker clicked open.
Then another.
Metal banged down the corridor. Doors swung wide. Papers spilled out and slid across the floor—report cards, homework sheets, detention slips.
Each page bore a signature.
My name.
My mouth went dry. I stepped back, but the hallway seemed longer than before.
Lessons That Never End
Classroom doors creaked open on either side of me.
Inside one room, chalk scraped slowly against slate.
White letters formed.
ATTENDANCE IS MANDATORY
Cold air brushed my face. I did not remember it being this cold.
Desks filled the room now. Students sat upright, hands folded. Their uniforms came from different years—some neat, some torn, some stained dark at the collar. None of them blinked.
At the front stood the teacher.
Her face was smooth and pale, like a board wiped clean.
“You are late,” she said.
My name followed. Soft. Certain.
Heat crept up my neck. I hadn’t been late in years.
My feet moved anyway.
Rules Written in Dust
The students opened their notebooks in unison. Pages turned without hands.
A desk waited for me. My name was carved deep into the wood, splintered at the edges as if cut in haste.
I remained standing.
The floor tilted. My knees gave.
I sat.
A pencil rolled against my fingers. It felt warm, as if someone had just set it down.
The board shifted.
LESSON ONE: STAY
The bell rang again, nearer now—inside the walls, inside my teeth.
My hand twitched. The pencil pressed into paper. Around me, pages rustled in a slow rhythm, like breathing.
The room felt smaller.
The Final Roll Call
The teacher began to read names.
Each time she spoke, a student stood calmly. Their desk folded inward. The chair sank through the floor. The space they had filled sealed shut without a seam.
The room thinned.
My pulse thudded in my ears.
Fewer desks remained.
Silence settled.
She turned toward me.
My name formed again, shaped by a mouth that was not there.
I did not want to stand.
My legs straightened anyway.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the bell rang a third time.
The sound split the room apart. Windows burst outward. Moonlight poured in, sharp and blinding.
The students shrieked—not in fear, but in protest. Desks shuddered. The neat order fractured.
I ran.
The hallway no longer stretched. The doors rushed toward me. I stumbled through them and collapsed onto the grass outside, hands digging into the dirt.
What Still Echoes
When I looked back, the doors were sealed. The windows were dark.
The building stood still.
Chalk dust clung beneath my fingernails. I scrubbed it off that night. By morning, it had returned.
I do not take that shortcut anymore.
Some nights I wake to a distant bell.
It rings once.
Then twice.