"Ellie and the Lab":
Back in high school, I was just another kid in a small town. You know the type of place—where everyone waves at each other, and you can walk from one end of Main Street to the other in under ten minutes. The biggest scandal was if someone’s lawn wasn’t mowed for church Sunday. People left their doors unlocked, and nobody worried about locking their cars. But that fall, the fall of ’92, everything changed. Fear crept into our quiet town, and it started in the last place anyone would have expected—our school.
My name’s Jake. I was a junior at the time, balancing school, football, and just trying to figure out who I was. Our high school was a relic, a brick building with ivy crawling up the sides and windows so old they warped your reflection. The floors groaned under every step, and the long hallways always seemed a little too dark. But back then, it was just a building to me. I didn’t think twice about its creaks and shadows. Not until that October.
It was a Thursday afternoon, and I was sitting in the library, cramming for a history test on the Revolutionary War. The library was a quiet haven, lined with ancient books that smelled of mildew. It was dimly lit, with long wooden tables scarred from decades of restless students scratching initials and doodles into the surface.
I was halfway through my notes when I overheard two freshmen whispering a few tables over.
“Ellie didn’t come to class today,” one of them said, her voice low.
“Yeah, someone saw her near the old science lab,” the other replied, glancing around nervously.
Ellie was a sophomore. Quiet, shy, always wearing oversized sweaters like she was trying to hide from the world. She wasn’t someone you’d notice unless you were looking for her. But now, her absence was a spark igniting whispers around the school.
I leaned across the table to Mike, my best friend and the quarterback of our football team. “Hey, you hear about Ellie?”
Mike didn’t even look up from his comic book. “What about her?”
“Some kids are saying she went into the old science lab and hasn’t been seen since.”
Mike frowned, finally putting his comic down. “That place? It’s been shut down for years. Why would she go in there?”
I shrugged. “You know how rumors are. Probably nothing. But…”
“But you want to check it out,” he finished, smirking.
“Come on,” I said, standing up. “Aren’t you even a little curious?”
He sighed, rolling his eyes but getting up anyway. “If we get caught, I’m blaming you.”
The old science wing was a part of the school we rarely ventured into. It had been sealed off after a fire years ago. Rumor had it the fire started during a late-night experiment, and one of the teachers hadn’t made it out. The charred wing had been left as a sort of ghostly reminder, locked away behind a heavy wooden door. But as we walked toward it, I noticed something strange—the door wasn’t locked. In fact, it was slightly ajar, creaking open just enough to tempt someone inside.
The air was colder there, and the usual hum of the school—the chatter of students, the distant buzz of the intercom—faded into an eerie silence. By the time we reached the lab, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.
Inside, the room was a wasteland of debris and shadows. Desks lay overturned, blackened by fire, with jagged splinters jutting out like broken bones. Cobwebs draped from the ceiling, swaying gently as if something had disturbed them. The smell of mold and burnt wood was suffocating.
“Ellie?” I called out, my voice cracking slightly.
Nothing.
Mike nudged me. “Let’s look around. She might still be here.”
We split up, stepping carefully over the debris. The floor creaked ominously beneath our feet. My flashlight beam caught movement—a rat scurrying into a hole in the wall. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Then I saw it. Near the back of the room, half-buried under a pile of broken chairs, was a single shoe. It was small, white with pink laces tied in little bows. Ellie’s shoe.
“Mike,” I called, my voice barely above a whisper.
He hurried over, his face paling when he saw it. “Jake, this isn’t good.”
Before I could respond, a faint sound stopped us in our tracks. A muffled noise—soft, but unmistakable—coming from somewhere nearby.
“Did you hear that?” I asked.
Mike nodded, his eyes wide. We followed the sound to an overturned desk in the corner. As we lifted it, the noise grew louder—a whimper, desperate and scared. Beneath the desk was Ellie, tied up with ropes and gagged with a dirty cloth. Her eyes were red from crying, her face pale and streaked with tears.
“Ellie!” I dropped to my knees, fumbling with the ropes. Mike pulled the gag from her mouth.
“It was Seth,” she gasped, her voice barely audible.
“Seth?” I repeated, stunned.
Seth was a senior, one of those kids who blended into the background. He wasn’t popular or athletic, just quiet and a little awkward. I couldn’t imagine him hurting anyone.
We didn’t waste any more time. Half-carrying Ellie, we rushed to the office, bursting in on Mrs. Thompson, our no-nonsense history teacher. She took one look at us and grabbed the phone without a word.
The police arrived within minutes, their presence transforming our sleepy school into a scene straight out of a crime show. They searched the science wing, and it didn’t take long to find Seth. He was hiding in the basement, curled up behind an old boiler, muttering to himself.
Later, we learned the truth. Seth had written Ellie a fake love note, pretending to be Kevin, the boy she had a crush on. He lured her to the old lab under the pretense of meeting him there. What he planned to do after trapping her wasn’t entirely clear, even to him. The police said he was struggling with deep loneliness and a fixation on Ellie that had spiraled into something dark and dangerous.
Ellie transferred to another school not long after. Seth was sent to a psychiatric facility, and the old science wing was demolished before the year was out. But the scars didn’t vanish so easily.
The school felt different after that. Every creak of the floorboards, every flicker of the lights in the hallway, seemed like a warning. People started locking their lockers, watching their backs. Conversations shifted from gossip about who was dating who to serious discussions about safety and trust.
One afternoon, as Mike and I walked home, the setting sun casting long shadows over the cracked sidewalks, he turned to me.
“Do you think something like that could happen again?”
I thought about it, about how easy it was for someone to hide in plain sight. “I don’t know,” I said. “But I think we need to pay more attention. To each other, to everything.”
Mike nodded, but the silence that followed was heavy. The kind of silence that sticks with you, like the weight of a secret you can’t quite shake.
Fear had come to our town, not from a ghost or a monster, but from one of our own. And while the locks on our doors and the whispers in our hallways might have changed, the truth remained: the scariest monsters are the ones you think you know.
"Beneath the Stairs":
I was a high school sophomore when it happened—a time when life was supposed to revolve around late-night study sessions, awkward crushes, and dreams about the future. My school, Elmwood Academy, wasn’t the kind of place where shadows lurked or secrets festered, or at least, that’s what everyone believed. Located in a sleepy little town where news traveled faster than the wind, it was a prestigious private school with ivy-covered walls, strict dress codes, and an unspoken promise of safety.
But there’s something about places like that—old buildings, hidden corners, and long-forgotten spaces. They’re magnets for secrets.
Elmwood’s basement had always been a point of fascination for students. It wasn’t part of the school tours for prospective families, and there were no security cameras down there. Officially, it was off-limits—a storage area for old equipment, outdated books, and broken desks—but unofficially, it was an unspoken rite of passage. Sneaking down there was almost a tradition. Stories of strange sounds and ghostly sightings circulated every year, growing wilder with each retelling.
I wasn’t the adventurous type. I preferred to stay in my lane, focusing on grades and keeping out of trouble. But Emily had other plans.
Emily was... magnetic. She had this boundless energy, a way of making you feel like the world was full of wonder and mystery, just waiting for you to uncover it. She was the kind of person who could convince you to do something reckless with a single mischievous grin.
That afternoon, after the final bell had rung and the halls began to empty, Emily turned to us with that exact grin.
"Let’s check out the basement," she said, her voice brimming with excitement.
Jake, Sarah, Chris, and I exchanged uneasy glances. "Why?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
"Because no one’s been down there in forever," she replied, her eyes twinkling. "What if we find something amazing? Like buried treasure. Or, I don’t know, a secret tunnel!"
"Or a pile of rats," Jake muttered.
"Come on," Emily urged, pulling me by the arm. "Don’t be such a killjoy. It’ll be fun!"
Reluctantly, I agreed. So did the others. Peer pressure is a powerful thing, especially when you’re a teenager.
We waited until the hallways cleared, then slipped into the janitor’s closet. Emily had figured out the schedule of Mr. Miller, the janitor, and assured us he wouldn’t be back for hours. Behind the mops and buckets was a narrow, creaky staircase leading down into darkness.
The basement was colder than I expected, the chill seeping through my uniform. The air smelled of mildew and age, a mix of damp stone and decaying wood. Dim light bulbs hung from the ceiling, casting flickering pools of yellow light that barely pierced the shadows.
We wandered through the labyrinth of boxes, shelves, and forgotten relics. There were old trophies coated in dust, yearbooks from decades ago, and cracked chalkboards leaning against the walls. For a while, it was almost fun, like exploring an abandoned museum.
Then we found the door.
It was at the far end of the basement, tucked away in a corner. Unlike the other doors, which were scratched and faded with age, this one was newer, its metal surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. A heavy padlock secured it, and a faint hum of tension filled the air as we approached.
"What do you think’s in there?" Jake asked, his voice hushed.
"Something important," Emily said, her hand brushing the lock.
"Or something dangerous," I countered, a shiver running down my spine.
"Only one way to find out," Chris said with a sly grin, pulling a paperclip from his pocket.
"Why do you even have that?" Sarah asked, half-laughing.
"Everyone needs a hobby," he replied, kneeling by the lock.
It didn’t take him long. With a soft click, the padlock popped open. Emily pushed the door ajar, and it creaked loudly, the sound echoing through the basement.
Inside, the room was small and bare, its concrete walls closing in like a tomb. A single desk sat in the center, paired with a worn, wooden chair. On the desk was an old computer, its beige casing yellowed with age but still plugged in, its power light faintly glowing.
"This is creepy," Sarah whispered, clutching her phone like a lifeline.
"Or it’s awesome," Emily said, already moving towards the desk.
"Don’t touch it," I warned, but Emily ignored me. She pressed the power button, and the computer whirred to life, its fans groaning as though reluctant to wake.
The screen flickered, revealing a login prompt.
"Password?" Emily muttered, typing random guesses. She tried "admin," "password," and "1234" with no success. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she hit a combination that worked.
The desktop loaded, revealing folders with cryptic labels: dates, initials, and codes. Emily opened one, her curiosity insatiable.
The first folder contained photos—hundreds of them. As the images loaded, our laughter died. They were pictures of students—our classmates—taken without their knowledge. They were candid but invasive, capturing moments that should have been private: changing in the locker rooms, sitting alone in the library, even walking home at night.
"What the hell is this?" Jake whispered, his face pale.
Emily clicked another folder, this one filled with documents. Detailed records on students—personal information, schedules, medical histories, even family secrets.
"This isn’t right," I said, my voice trembling.
Then we heard it. Footsteps.
Someone was coming. We scrambled to hide, crouching behind a row of filing cabinets as the footsteps drew closer. My heart was pounding so loudly I was sure it would give us away.
The door opened, and in stepped Mr. Henderson, our history teacher.
"I told you," he said, speaking into his phone. "Everything is secure. No one will find it."
His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that sent a chill down my spine.
After a few tense moments, he left, locking the door behind him. We waited in silence until we were sure he was gone, then bolted out of the basement like our lives depended on it.
That night, we gathered at Emily’s house, the files she had copied glowing on her laptop screen. The evidence was damning. Mr. Henderson had been spying on students, using the information to blackmail them.
The next morning, we took everything to Principal Daniels. His reaction was immediate—shock, disbelief, then grim determination.
By the end of the day, Mr. Henderson was gone, escorted off campus by the police. The school tried to keep the details quiet, but rumors spread like wildfire. The basement was permanently sealed, and new security measures were put in place.
For weeks, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, the weight of what we’d uncovered pressing down on me. Emily and I grew closer, bonded by the shared fear and the knowledge that we had exposed something dark lurking in the shadows of our seemingly perfect school.
To this day, I can’t walk past a closed door without wondering what secrets lie on the other side. And I’ve learned that sometimes, the most terrifying monsters aren’t the ones from ghost stories—they’re the ones who hide in plain sight, wearing friendly faces and wielding your trust like a weapon.
"Dozier School":
I remember the day like it’s burned into my mind, as clear as if it just happened. The air was heavy, the sky a dull sheet of gray that seemed to press down on everything, muting the colors of our small Florida town. October 2012—fall for everyone else, but here in the Panhandle, it was just the tail end of the oppressive summer heat. The humidity clung to my skin as I stood outside the gates of the Dozier School for Boys, staring up at the place that was supposed to “fix” me.
Fix me. That’s what the judge had said. “This school will set you straight,” he declared, as though he were doing me a favor. My mom cried in the courtroom; I could hear her sniffles even as they led me away. But no tears from my stepdad. He’d just watched me go, his face hard. I think he was relieved to be rid of me.
The gates creaked open with a metallic groan, and I stepped inside. Right away, I felt it—the oppressive weight of the place. The buildings loomed like decaying sentinels, their paint peeling in long strips to reveal gray wood beneath. Windows were cracked or boarded up, and the faint smell of rot hung in the air. A high chain-link fence wrapped around the entire campus, topped with barbed wire that curled inward, like it was designed to keep us in rather than keep intruders out.
I didn’t say a word as the guard marched me to my dorm. I clutched my small duffel bag, my knuckles white, trying to ignore the stares of the other boys as we passed. Some looked curious, others bored, but a few had a glint in their eyes that sent a shiver down my spine.
“New kid,” someone muttered, smirking.
Inside the dorm, I met Jake, my roommate. He was small and wiry, with hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in years and sharp, darting eyes that never seemed to settle. He was lying on his bunk, carving something into the wood with a dull pocketknife.
“You’re the new one, huh?” he said without looking up.
I nodded. “Yeah. I’m—”
“Doesn’t matter,” he cut me off. “Names don’t mean much here. Just keep your head down and don’t piss anyone off, and maybe you’ll make it through.”
I sat on the edge of my bunk, unsure of what to say. Jake finally glanced at me, his expression hard. “Whatever you do, don’t go near the White House.”
“The White House?” I asked, frowning.
Jake’s face darkened, and he leaned in closer, his voice barely a whisper. “Not like the president’s house, genius. Here, it’s the building where they take you if you screw up. Fights, talking back, trying to run—they take you there to teach you a lesson.”
I wanted to laugh, to tell him he was just trying to scare me, but the fear in his eyes stopped me. It wasn’t the kind of fear you could fake.
Over the next few days, I settled into the grim routine. Wake up at dawn, eat the blandest food imaginable, sit through boring classes taught by guards who barely cared, and spend the afternoons doing manual labor—cleaning, fixing fences, or cutting grass under the watchful eyes of men like Mr. Hendricks.
Hendricks was the head guard, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a permanent scowl and a voice like gravel. He was the one everyone feared most, the one whose name was whispered with dread. “Hendricks runs the White House,” Jake told me one night as we lay in our bunks. “If he takes you there, you’re not coming out the same.”
I wanted to ask more, but I could tell Jake didn’t want to talk about it. He turned over, leaving me alone with my thoughts. That night, I dreamed of a white building with no windows, a place where shadows moved and voices whispered just out of reach.
The reality turned out to be worse.
It happened about a week later. I’d gotten into a fight in the cafeteria—a stupid, pointless fight. Some older kid shoved me while I was carrying my tray, and the next thing I knew, we were on the floor, fists flying. It ended quickly, broken up by the guards, but not before I landed a solid punch to the kid’s jaw.
“That’s enough,” Hendricks growled as he hauled me to my feet. “Take him to the White House.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Jake’s warning echoed in my mind, but I didn’t resist as Hendricks grabbed my arm and led me across the campus. The other boys stared as I passed, their faces a mix of pity and fear.
The White House was smaller than I’d imagined, a squat, one-story building painted a sickly yellowish-white. It stood at the edge of the campus, partially hidden by trees. As Hendricks unlocked the door, my heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst.
Inside, the air was thick and stifling, smelling of bleach and sweat. The walls were stained with dark smudges, and the floor was bare concrete. In the center of the room was a single wooden chair with leather straps on the arms and legs.
“Sit,” Hendricks ordered, his voice cold.
I hesitated, and he shoved me toward the chair. I sat, my hands trembling as he tightened the straps around my wrists.
For a moment, nothing happened. I sat there, staring at the floor, my mind racing. Then the door opened again, and two more boys were shoved inside. One was Alex, a skinny kid I recognized from class. His face was pale, and his eyes darted around the room like a trapped animal. The other boy was younger, maybe ten or eleven, his face streaked with tears.
“They’re gonna beat us,” Alex whispered, his voice shaking.
Before I could respond, Hendricks returned with another guard. They carried long, thick straps of leather, their edges frayed from use. Neither of them spoke as they began.
The first strike came without warning, the strap cracking against my back like a whip. The pain was instant, sharp, and overwhelming. I clenched my teeth, trying not to cry out, but the second strike broke through my resolve. The sound of leather hitting flesh echoed off the walls, mingling with our cries.
I lost track of time. It felt like hours, though it was probably only minutes. When it was over, I was left slumped in the chair, my back burning with pain.
“They say they do this to make us better,” Alex murmured as we were led back to the dorms, “but it just breaks us.”
That night, as Jake helped clean my wounds, he told me something I’ll never forget. “They found another grave out back yesterday. A boy who tried to run. He didn’t make it.”
For the next two years, I lived in constant fear. Fear of the guards, of the White House, of disappearing like so many others. I heard whispers of boys who vanished, their bunks left empty in the morning. The cemetery behind the school grew larger every year, its graves unmarked, its secrets buried with the bodies.
Years later, after the school was shut down, forensic teams uncovered the truth. Over fifty graves were discovered, each one a testament to the horrors we endured. But for those of us who survived, the scars were deeper than any grave could hold.
I got out, but I’ll never truly escape. The screams, the shadows, the weight of those years—they’ll stay with me forever.