POV: You’re the New Teacher… But You Were Here Before
The gates of Blackwood Academy groaned as they swung open, the rusted metal shrieking in protest. Lily Harrow hesitated, suitcase in hand, her breath misting in the cold evening air. The building before her loomed against the storm-heavy sky, its broken windows staring like hollow eyes. Ivy clawed up the stone, suffocating it, as if the academy itself was trying to escape its own walls.
Lily swallowed hard. She had come here for a fresh start, for a purpose. But the air carried more than the weight of history — it carried whispers.
She stepped forward.
Inside, the corridors stretched like a gnarled spine, twisting into shadows. The overhead lights flickered, their dim glow failing to reach the corners where darkness seemed to breathe. The air was thick with dust and something else — something metallic, sharp, and wrong.
“Miss Harrow?”
The voice cut through the silence, making Lily flinch. At the far end of the hallway stood Mrs. Winslow, the head of administration. Her severe expression was as rigid as her tightly wound bun.
“You received the information packet?”
Lily nodded. “I did.”
Mrs. Winslow gave a curt smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Good. Classes begin tomorrow. You’ll find your accommodations… adequate.” She turned briskly, heels clicking against the tile. “However, I must advise — some areas of the building are off-limits after dark.”
“Why?” Lily asked, gripping the strap of her bag.
A pause. “Maintenance issues,” Mrs. Winslow said, though her tone suggested something else. “You’ll adjust.”
As they walked, Lily felt it again — that weight in the air. Like the walls were listening.
Her assigned classroom was a relic of the past. The wooden desks, carved with names and half-etched symbols, stood in uneven rows. The chalkboard bore the faint outlines of old lessons, and the window overlooked the courtyard, where skeletal trees swayed in the wind.
Setting her suitcase down, she reached for the heavy curtains, pulling them aside.
Outside, a girl stood alone.
She was no older than eight or nine, with dark, tangled hair framing a pale face. Her uniform was old-fashioned, the edges frayed. She stood perfectly still, her hands at her sides, watching.
Lily’s breath hitched.
Then the girl tilted her head, just slightly.
And smiled.
The room’s light flickered.
Lily spun toward the switch — just a brief second, a moment of lost focus. When she looked back out the window —
The girl was gone.
That night, sleep refused to come.
Lily sat at her desk, staring at her lesson plans, though the words blurred together. The room felt colder than before, the heater useless against the chill creeping from beneath the door.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily, its sound unnaturally loud in the silence.
Then —
Tap.
A sound, faint but deliberate.
Tap. Tap.
Her eyes snapped toward the door. The hallway beyond was dark, swallowed in shadow. She exhaled slowly, shaking her head. Just the wind. Just nerves.
But then she saw it.
The papers on her desk had shifted — not scattered by a breeze, not knocked over by her hand.
One page, separate from the rest.
A drawing.
A rough, uneven sketch of Blackwood Academy, its towering façade unmistakable. But something was wrong.
The school was engulfed in flames.
And at the center of the burning building stood a figure — its body elongated, limbs stretching unnaturally.
Above it, written in jagged, erratic script:
“IT NEVER LEFT.”
Lily’s breath turned shallow.
And then —
The door creaked open.
A child’s laughter, distant yet impossibly close, drifted through the empty room.
The next day, the students were… off.
Too quiet. Too still.
Their wide eyes followed her as she moved through the classroom, their expressions blank but knowing. A boy in the front row whispered under his breath, his lips barely moving.
Lily caught his gaze. “What did you say?”
The boy’s head tilted, his face eerily expressionless.
“It listens.”
The words sent ice through her veins.
He turned back to his notebook, writing as though nothing had happened.
Lily forced herself to keep teaching, but the feeling of being watched never faded.
That evening, the rain poured in sheets, hammering against the windows.
Lily sat at her desk, exhaustion weighing her limbs. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that the school wasn’t just old — it was alive.
She had to understand.
She had to know why.
Grabbing her flashlight, she made her way through the darkened corridors, past rows of abandoned classrooms, past doors that had not been opened in years.
Then — she saw it.
A door marked “Room 3B”.
The wood was scorched, blackened by flames long past.
Lily’s fingers hovered over the handle. A sharp gust of air rushed from beneath the door, carrying the scent of burnt fabric, of something deeper — something rotting.
She turned the knob.
The door swung inward on its own.
Inside, the walls were covered in names.
Etched into the stone, scratched deep — row after row, hundreds, maybe thousands.
Lily stepped forward, heart hammering, as her eyes scanned the names.
Then she saw it.
At the very bottom, fresh and untouched by dust:
LILY HARROW.
The flashlight flickered.
The door slammed shut.
The whispers rose.
And behind her, something moved.
This short story was taken from Horror Books — immerse yourself in terrifying tales that will keep you up at night. Download the app now: https://horrorstories.app/
