The floors gleamed under the flickering fluorescent lights, though no one ever seemed to see them being cleaned. The scent of industrial cleaner lingered, faint but ever-present, even when no mop or bucket stood in sight.
A cart stood abandoned near the supply closet, a single gray rag draped over its handle. The wheels were misaligned, one of them spinning idly, though no footsteps had echoed through the halls in hours.
The school should have been empty by now. The last bell had rung, the students long gone, their voices fading into the cold evening air. Yet, in the farthest hallway, the faint sound of sweeping continued. A slow, rhythmic motion—shh, shh, shh.
A locked classroom door sat ajar, just enough to see inside. Desks perfectly aligned, chairs tucked neatly beneath them, as if no one had sat in them for years. On the chalkboard, a lesson remained half-written, the date smudged. February 17th.
Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows. The school remained still. The sweeping had stopped.
The janitor's cart was no longer by the closet.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The faint hum of the overhead lights buzzed like a whisper in an empty room. The desks, the chairs, the half-written lesson—they all sat untouched, waiting.
But something had moved.
Near the chalkboard, a single chair was pulled out, just slightly. Barely noticeable. Barely enough to question. The eraser, once resting neatly on the tray, now lay on the floor, a faint streak of white dust trailing from its edge.
A draft swept through the hallway, cold and dry, carrying the scent of old books and something else—something metallic. The janitor's cart was gone, but a wet footprint remained where it had stood. Not water. Something thicker. Darker.
The door creaked.
The sound wasn't loud, but in the stillness, it echoed. The half-opened classroom door now stood wider. Beyond it, the hallway stretched long and dim, the overhead lights flickering as if struggling to stay awake.
Further down, where the hall bent into shadow, something shifted.
Not footsteps. Not breathing. Just the sensation of movement. The weight of unseen eyes.
The sweeping sound resumed.
Shh. Shh. Shh.
But the cart was still missing.
At the corner where the hallway curved into darkness, a door stood slightly open. The sign above it read: Maintenance Room.
Inside, shelves lined the walls, filled with cleaning supplies—bottles of disinfectant, rolls of paper towels, stacks of neatly folded rags. A single light flickered weakly from the ceiling, casting long, distorted shadows. The janitor's cart wasn't here. But something else was.
A mop leaned against the farthest shelf, its handle slick with something wet. The smell of cleaner was strong, almost overpowering, but beneath it, there was something else. Something metallic. Something wrong.
A clipboard rested on a nearby table. The paper clipped to it was old, the edges curled, the ink faded. A checklist.
Sweep hallways ✅
Wipe down desks ✅
Take out trash ✅
Lock all doors ⬜
The last task was incomplete.
A breath of cold air drifted through the room. Not from the vents. From somewhere lower. Somewhere beneath the floor.
The checklist fluttered. The air stilled.
Outside the maintenance room, the sweeping sound stopped.
And then—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. Approaching.
The door to the maintenance room creaked, inching open just a little more.
The mop tipped over, hitting the ground with a soft thud.
Silence.
And then—
Shh. Shh. Shh.
The sweeping had started again. But this time… it was closer.
The sweeping was steady. Unbroken. Closer.
Outside the maintenance room, the hallway was the same—but it wasn't. The flickering lights had steadied, their glow too bright, too white. The smudged date on the chalkboard. The missing cart. The shifting objects. The checklist.
The school wasn't abandoned.
It had never been.
A single photograph rested on the table beside the checklist, one that hadn't been there before. Faded and yellowed, its edges curled with age.
A group of students stood in front of the school entrance, their uniforms neat, their smiles forced. Behind them, barely noticeable, a man stood near the door. Dressed in plain overalls, a cap pulled low over his face. A mop rested in his hands.
No eyes. No features. Just a shadow where a face should be.
The ink on the checklist bled, the last task filling itself in.
Lock all doors ✅
The maintenance room door clicked shut.
The lights flickered again.
Shh. Shh. Shh.
What is your conclusion?