The estate had existed for as long as anyone could remember, and with it grew the haunted classroom stories students passed down in lowered voices. Renovations replaced old flats and erased familiar buildings, yet the layout remained recognizable to those who grew up there. The secondary school was one of the first built in the area, and unlike others that were rebuilt beyond recognition, it remained.
Alumni spoke of it with equal parts familiarity and caution.
There were always rumors—classrooms that stayed cold, stairwells where footsteps echoed too long, lights that flickered without reason. Students laughed them off. Old buildings made noise. Old wiring failed.
Block C was older than the rest.
It stood apart, linked by a covered walkway most students used only when necessary. Lower floors held regular lessons. Higher up, routines shifted. Teachers rarely scheduled classes above the third floor. Students avoided the upper stairwell without discussion.
No rule forbade it.
Avoidance settled quietly.
I transferred in my final year after my family moved to care for my grandfather. Everyone else moved through the campus by instinct. I learned by watching—which corridors emptied first, which doors stayed shut.
That was how I noticed Room C-4.
Over time, I understood the haunted classroom stories were not about cold air or flickering lights.
They were about a room that never seemed to empty.
The Classroom Still Listed on the Timetable
Room C-4 sat on the fourth floor of Block C, at the corridor’s end where sunlight stopped short. Officially, the school still recognized the room. It appeared on internal timetables and digital schedules.
No one could remember the last lesson held there.
When I asked, answers came thin. “Under review.” “Overflow space.” Even during examinations—when rooms were scarce—C-4 remained unused.
The fourth floor was not abandoned. Lights worked. Floors were clean. Notice boards displayed outdated announcements that no one removed. It felt maintained without being occupied.
The door to Room C-4 looked newer than the surrounding walls. Its class label used the current font.
One afternoon, a notice appeared outside C-4. A lesson was scheduled for the following morning. No teacher’s name.
That night, I checked the digital timetable. The entry was there.
The next day, our class gathered outside Block C. Several students stared at their phones. A few looked toward the fourth-floor windows and quickly away. No one stepped forward.
When our teacher arrived, she checked her tablet and paused. She glanced once toward the stairwell.
Then she led us to Block D instead.
No one asked why.
C-4 remained on the timetable.
Entering the Haunted Classroom
Curiosity outweighed caution.
The fourth floor held a silence that pressed against my ears. Sunlight reached the stairwell but stopped before the corridor’s end, leaving the far stretch dim despite working lights. My footsteps sounded too loud.
The door to Room C-4 was unlocked.
I stood there longer than I meant to. My hand hovered over the handle. I told myself it was only a room.
Inside, the air felt untouched—like breath held too long. Desks were arranged neatly. Chairs were pushed in with care. The blackboard was clean, though faint chalk marks lingered beneath the surface.
On the teacher’s desk lay a class register.
It was open.
Several names were marked present.
None of them was mine.
My palms felt damp. I told myself they were old records.
Beside the board, a seating plan showed assigned desks. Most were filled.
One space remained blank.
The Name That Was Crossed Out
The names in the register did not match any current class list. Yet the dates were recent. The handwriting looked steady.
Later that day, during attendance, my form teacher hesitated.
She scanned the register once, then again.
She read a name aloud.
It matched one I had seen in Room C-4.
No one answered.
The pause stretched. A student near me shifted in his chair. The teacher crossed the name out lightly and continued.
No explanation followed.
The next morning, during roll call, my teacher reached my name.
I answered.
She nodded and moved on.
Then she stopped.
At the bottom of the page, beneath the last printed name, my name appeared again—typed in the same font.
She read it a second time.
No one laughed.
She crossed it out and continued.
My throat felt tight.
At recess, I went back to Block C.
Inside Room C-4, one chair in the back row near the window sat slightly pulled out.
On the desk, the register lay open.
My name appeared at the bottom.
Unmarked.
The Seat That Waited
I stood in the doorway, staring at the pulled-out seat. For a moment, I imagined the relief of sitting. Of letting the confusion end. Of being recorded somewhere permanent.
The thought frightened me more than the room.
Instead, I stepped to the desk and picked up the register. The pages felt heavier than they should have.
Attendance always began the day. Dismissal ended it.
If this room followed the same rules, maybe it needed to be told the class was over.
One by one, I read the names aloud.
“You are dismissed.”
My voice trembled the first time. A chair scraped softly behind me.
Nothing else happened.
I swallowed and read the next name.
“You are dismissed.”
The air tightened, then loosened.
After each name, I drew a line through it. The scraping sound moved farther away, as if chairs were settling back into place.
Near the end of the list, my name remained.
My hands shook.
If I was wrong, sitting in that chair would finish what the register had started.
I forced the words out.
“You are dismissed.”
For a second, the room held its breath.
Then the lights flickered.
Paint dulled as if drained of color. Rust surfaced along the hinges. Dust gathered across the desks. The pulled-out chair tipped and slid back under the table.
I stepped into the corridor without looking behind me.
By afternoon, Room C-4 no longer appeared on the timetable.
I graduated that year.
Sometimes, when attendance takes too long, I feel that same pause stretch in the air.
And I wonder whether somewhere, in a room kept clean but never used, a chair is still waiting for someone to answer my name.