"Classroom 3B":
I was in history class, doodling in my notebook, when the intercom crackled to life. “Attention, students and staff,” Principal Carter’s voice boomed, sharp and urgent. “We are now in lockdown. This is not a drill. Follow lockdown procedures immediately.”
The room went dead quiet. My pencil froze mid-scribble. My heart started thumping so loud I thought everyone could hear it. Mrs. Larson, our teacher, rushed to the door, her hands shaking as she locked it and yanked the blinds down. “Everyone, under your desks,” she said, her voice tight, like she was trying not to panic.
We scrambled to the floor, squeezing under the desks. The metal was cold against my knees, and I could smell the dusty linoleum. My best friend, Emma, was next to me, her eyes wide, clutching her backpack like a shield. “What’s happening?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“I don’t know,” I whispered back, my mouth dry. My mind raced. We’d done lockdown drills before, but this felt different. The air was heavy, like something bad was coming.
Across the room, Jake, the kid who always joked around, was pale, his usual grin gone. “This is real, isn’t it?” he said, his voice cracking.
“Shh,” Mrs. Larson hissed, pressing a finger to her lips. She was crouched by her desk, holding her phone, texting someone. Her face was tight with worry.
The silence was suffocating. Every little sound made me jump—the hum of the air vent, a chair creaking as someone shifted. Then, a faint thump came from the hallway. My stomach dropped. Everyone’s heads snapped toward the door.
“What was that?” Emma whispered, her eyes huge.
I shook my head, too scared to answer. Mrs. Larson held up her hand, signaling us to stay quiet. She tiptoed to the door, pressing her ear against it. Her face went even paler.
The intercom buzzed again, making us all flinch. “This is Principal Carter. We have a report of an escaped patient from the nearby hospital. Police are handling it, but remain in lockdown until further notice. Stay calm and quiet.”
An escaped patient? My mind spun with images of someone dangerous, maybe unhinged, wandering near our school. Was he outside? In the building? I gripped the edge of my desk, my knuckles white.
“Did you hear that?” Jake whispered, his voice shaking. “An escaped patient. What if he’s got a weapon or something?”
“Stop it,” Emma snapped softly. “You’re scaring everyone.”
“I’m just saying what we’re all thinking,” Jake muttered, but he went quiet, his eyes darting to the door.
Another sound came from the hallway—a low, scraping noise, like something dragging across the floor. My heart pounded so hard I felt sick. I pictured someone out there, shuffling, maybe looking for a way in.
Mrs. Larson was back at her desk now, whispering into her phone. “Yes, we’re secure,” she said, her voice barely steady. “No one’s missing. Please hurry.”
I looked at Emma. Her lips were moving, like she was praying silently. I wanted to say something to calm her, but I was too scared to speak. The scraping stopped, but then came a worse sound—a faint, raspy cough, just outside our door.
Everyone froze. Mrs. Larson’s phone slipped from her hand, hitting the floor with a soft thud. She didn’t move to pick it up. Her eyes were locked on the door, her breathing fast.
“Is that him?” a girl named Lily whispered from the back, her voice trembling.
“Quiet!” Mrs. Larson said, sharper than before. She crawled to the door again, listening. The cough came again, louder, followed by a faint knock. My blood ran cold.
Emma grabbed my hand, squeezing so tight it hurt. “What if he’s trying to get in?” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My throat felt like it was closing up. The knocking stopped, but now there were footsteps—slow, uneven, like someone was pacing outside. I imagined a stranger, confused, maybe dangerous, just inches away behind that thin door.
Mrs. Larson held up her hand again, her face a mask of fear. “Stay calm,” she mouthed, but her eyes said she was anything but calm.
The footsteps faded, and for a moment, it was quiet again. Too quiet. I could hear my own heartbeat, my classmates’ shaky breaths. Then, a loud bang echoed from somewhere down the hall, like a locker slamming shut. A few kids gasped. Lily started crying softly, and Jake muttered, “This is bad, this is really bad.”
“Enough,” Mrs. Larson whispered fiercely. “We’re safe in here. The police are coming.” But her voice wavered, like she wasn’t sure.
Minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an hour. My legs ached from crouching, but I didn’t dare move. Every creak, every distant sound made my heart race. I kept picturing the patient—wild-eyed, maybe holding something sharp, wandering the halls.
Finally, the intercom crackled again. “This is Principal Carter. The situation is under control. The individual has been located and is no longer a threat. We’re lifting the lockdown. Please remain in your classrooms until teachers receive instructions.”
A wave of relief hit, but it wasn’t enough to wash away the fear. We stayed under our desks, waiting. Mrs. Larson stood slowly, her hands still trembling as she unlocked the door. She peeked out, then nodded. “It’s okay,” she said, but her voice was weak.
We crawled out, stiff and shaky. Emma hugged me, her face pale. “I thought we were done for,” she said, half-laughing, half-crying.
“Me too,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
Later, at lunch, the cafeteria was buzzing with rumors. “I heard the guy was in the school,” Jake said, picking at his food. “Like, actually in the halls.”
“No way,” Lily said, but she looked scared. “They said he was outside, near the parking lot.”
“I don’t care where he was,” Emma said. “I just never want to go through that again.”
Mrs. Larson told us later that the patient had wandered onto school grounds but never got inside. The police found him sitting in the courtyard, confused but not dangerous. Still, the fear lingered. That night, I lay awake, jumping at every sound, picturing those footsteps in the hall.
For weeks, school felt different. Quieter. Everyone was on edge, like we were waiting for it to happen again. I kept my head down, avoiding the courtyard, the memory of that raspy cough and those slow footsteps stuck in my mind, reminding me how close we’d come to something I couldn’t quite name.
"Under the Tables":
I was in the library, surrounded by the familiar smell of old books and the faint hum of the air conditioner. My history textbook was open, pages worn from use, and I was scribbling notes about the American Revolution. Next to me, Emily was hunched over her notebook, her pencil tapping nervously as she tried to memorize dates. “I swear, 1776 and 1789 are out to get me,” she muttered, pushing her glasses up her nose. Her dark hair fell over her face, and she brushed it back with a frustrated sigh.
“Chill, you’ll get it,” I said, smirking. “Just think, Declaration of Independence for 1776, French Revolution for 1789.” I leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms, feeling the ache from sitting too long. The library was my safe spot, with its tall shelves and soft carpet, a place where the world made sense.
Then it came—a sharp, deafening bang from down the hall. My pen skidded across the page, leaving a jagged line. Another bang, louder, followed by a scream that tore through the air like a knife. My heart slammed against my ribs, and I froze, my eyes locking with Emily’s. Her face was pale, her mouth half-open. “What was that?” she whispered, her voice barely a breath.
Before I could answer, the librarian, Mrs. Johnson, shot up from her desk. Her glasses slipped down her nose, and her hands trembled as she grabbed her keys from a drawer. “Everyone, under the tables! Now!” she hissed, her voice sharp but cracking with fear. She sprinted to the library doors, her sensible shoes squeaking on the floor, and fumbled with the lock. The heavy click echoed in the sudden silence. The library, my sanctuary of books and quiet, felt like a trap.
I grabbed Emily’s arm, and we dove under the nearest table, our knees scraping the carpet. My backpack fell, spilling pens and a water bottle that rolled away. Other students were already crouching, their faces a mix of shock and terror. A girl with braided hair across from us hugged her knees, her eyes wide, her breaths coming in quick gasps. A boy in a soccer jersey pressed his forehead to the floor, muttering something I couldn’t hear. The air felt thick, heavy with panic.
“What’s happening?” Emily whispered, her voice shaking. She clutched her notebook like a shield, her knuckles white.
“I think… I think there’s a shooter,” I said, my throat so tight the words barely came out. It sounded wrong, like something from a news report, not my life. My hands were clammy, and my heart pounded so loud I was sure someone could hear it.
More bangs rang out, closer now, each one a punch to my chest. Screams followed, high and desperate, echoing through the halls. Then came the worst sound—laughter. Cold, sharp, mocking laughter that made my skin crawl. It wasn’t the kind of laugh you hear at a joke; it was cruel, like it thrived on the fear it caused. I pressed my hands over my ears, trying to block it, but it slithered through, chilling me to the bone.
Mrs. Johnson crouched behind the circulation desk, her phone pressed to her ear. Her gray hair was coming loose from its bun, and her face was ghostly white. “Yes, we’re in the library,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “There are students here, maybe twenty. Please, hurry. We hear gunshots.” She hung up, her eyes darting to the locked doors. She crawled toward us, her knees bumping the floor. “Stay quiet,” she mouthed, her finger pressed to her lips. Her eyes were wide, pleading.
The PA system crackled, and a voice came through, calm but heavy with urgency. “This is a lockdown. This is not a drill. Teachers, secure your rooms. Students, stay hidden and silent.” The words hit like a wave, washing away any hope this was a mistake. My stomach twisted, and I felt like I might be sick. Emily’s hand found mine, her fingers icy and trembling. “Are we going to be okay?” she asked, her voice so small I barely heard it.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice cracking. “Just stay down. Don’t move.” I wanted to sound brave, but my words shook as much as my hands.
Footsteps thudded in the hallway, heavy and slow, like they had all the time in the world. My chest tightened, each breath sharp and shallow. The footsteps stopped right outside the library doors. The handles rattled, a loud, jarring sound that made my heart lurch. The girl with braids whimpered, and Mrs. Johnson shot her a desperate look, her finger pressed harder to her lips.
A voice came from the hall, low and angry. “They’re in there. I know they are.” My blood ran cold. Emily’s grip on my hand was so tight it hurt, but I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t. The doors rattled again, harder, and I heard glass crack, a sharp, splintering sound that made my skin prickle. I peeked out from under the table, just enough to see shadows moving beyond the frosted glass panels. Two figures, tall, wearing long dark coats. My breath caught, and I ducked back down, pulling Emily closer.
The library doors burst open, and a man stumbled in, his shirt stained with blood. It was Mr. Sanders, our history teacher, his face gray and slick with sweat. “Get down!” he gasped, his voice hoarse. “There are two of them, with guns. They’re students.” He collapsed under a table near us, his breathing ragged. Blood seeped through his shirt, pooling on the carpet. “Stay quiet,” he whispered, his eyes wild with fear. “They’re coming.”
Students? People we knew? The thought made my head spin. I pictured faces from the cafeteria, the hallways, kids I’d passed a hundred times. Who could do this? More gunfire erupted, so close it shook the air. The laughter came again, louder, from just outside the library. I closed my eyes, my body trembling, praying they’d pass by.
Glass shattered, a deafening crash that made me bite my lip to keep from screaming. The doors swung open, and heavy boots crunched on the broken glass. “Check the tables,” a voice said, cold and calm, like they were talking about homework. My heart stopped. I pressed myself flat against the floor, the carpet rough against my cheek. Emily was shaking so hard I could feel it through her hand.
“Over here,” another voice said, closer now. I held my breath, my eyes squeezed shut. The boots stopped, inches from our table. I could hear their breathing, slow and steady, nothing like the frantic gasps around me. A shadow fell over the table, and I braced myself, my mind blank with terror.
Then, chaos erupted—shouts, not from the shooters, but louder, commanding. “Police! Drop your weapons!” Sirens wailed, closer than before, a piercing sound that cut through the fear. Boots pounded, and more voices yelled, “Clear! Clear!” I heard a scuffle, a thud, then silence, broken only by the crackle of police radios. The figures in the coats didn’t speak again.
Mrs. Johnson stood slowly, her hands trembling so badly she had to grip the desk. “Stay down until they say it’s safe,” she whispered, her voice barely holding together. Minutes dragged on, each one an eternity. My legs ached from crouching, but I didn’t dare move. Emily was crying silently, tears streaking her face. Mr. Sanders was still, his breathing shallow, but he was alive.
Finally, a police officer appeared at the door, his vest bulky, his face serious but kind. “It’s over,” he said, his voice steady. “You’re safe now. Come out slowly, hands up.” We crawled out, my legs wobbly, my hands still shaking. Emily clung to me, her sobs quiet but unstoppable. Mr. Sanders struggled to his feet, leaning on a table, his shirt soaked with blood but his eyes fierce with relief.
We shuffled out of the library, stepping over shattered glass and scattered books. The hallway was chaos—police everywhere, students crying, teachers shouting names to find their classes. Bullet holes pocked the walls, and a fire alarm blared somewhere, adding to the madness. I held Emily’s hand, not letting go, even as we were led outside to a field where parents and ambulances waited.
That day, April 20, 1999, carved itself into my soul. The fear didn’t leave, not for years. Nightmares woke me, filled with gunshots and laughter. But in the weeks that followed, I saw my town come together—neighbors hugging, strangers helping, kids like me leaning on each other. We were broken, but we weren’t alone. The library, my safe place, was gone, but the strength we found in each other carried us through.
"The Sound of Footsteps":
I was sitting in my third-period history class, doodling in the margins of my notebook, only half-listening to Mr. Johnson’s lecture about the Battle of Gettysburg. The classroom smelled faintly of chalk dust and the lemon cleaner the janitors used. My desk was cold under my arms, and the faint hum of the air conditioner was the only other sound besides Mr. Johnson’s voice. It was just another day—until it wasn’t.
The PA system crackled to life, sharp and jarring, cutting through the monotony. “Attention students and faculty,” a voice said, steady but with an edge that made my stomach twist. “This is not a drill. We are going into lockdown immediately. Please follow all lockdown procedures.” The words hit like a punch. My pencil slipped from my hand, rolling across the desk and clattering to the floor. I looked around, and every face mirrored my own shock—eyes wide, mouths slightly open, frozen in disbelief.
Mr. Johnson’s expression changed in an instant. He dropped the marker he was holding and moved swiftly to the door. “Everyone, under your desks, now!” he hissed, his voice low but urgent. His hands trembled slightly as he locked the door and yanked the blinds down over the small window. The room plunged into dimness, the only light coming from the faint glow of emergency exit signs.
I scrambled under my desk, my knees scraping against the linoleum floor. The space was cramped, and I could feel the hard edge of the desk frame pressing into my back. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure everyone could hear it. Around me, my classmates were doing the same—some crawled under desks, others curled up against the wall, trying to make themselves as small as possible. A girl named Emily was clutching her backpack like a shield, her knuckles white. Someone was whispering, “What’s happening?” but no one answered.
“Is this real?” a guy named Tom muttered from the desk next to mine. His voice was shaky, and I could see his sneakers twitching nervously under his desk. “It’s gotta be a drill, right?”
“They said it’s not a drill,” I whispered back, my mouth dry. I didn’t want to believe it either, but the fear in Mr. Johnson’s eyes told me this was no practice run.
I pulled out my phone, desperate to text my dad. He was a math teacher at the base school across town, and I needed to know he was okay. But the screen showed no bars—no signal. The school’s Wi-Fi was blocked during class hours, and now, in a lockdown, it felt like we were completely cut off. I shoved the phone back into my pocket, my hands trembling so badly I almost dropped it.
The silence in the room was suffocating. Every little sound—a creak of a desk, a muffled sob, the rustle of someone shifting—felt amplified. I could hear my own breathing, shallow and quick, and I tried to slow it down, but the fear wouldn’t let me. Mr. Johnson was crouched near the door, his back pressed against the wall, peering through the tiny gap in the blinds. His face was pale, and his jaw was clenched tight. I’d never seen him like this—he was always the laid-back teacher who cracked bad history puns. Now, he looked like he was bracing for a war.
Minutes dragged on, each one stretching into forever. Then, I heard it—footsteps in the hallway. Heavy, deliberate, like boots on the linoleum. My breath caught in my throat, and I pressed myself deeper under the desk, as if that could make me invisible. The footsteps grew louder, closer, until they stopped right outside our door. I held my breath, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst. Was that the shooter? A police officer? Someone else? I didn’t know, and not knowing was the worst part.
The doorknob rattled softly, and a collective gasp rippled through the room. Mr. Johnson raised a hand, signaling us to stay quiet, his eyes locked on the door. The rattling stopped, and the footsteps moved on, fading down the hallway. I exhaled shakily, but the relief was fleeting. What if they came back?
Time blurred. It could’ve been ten minutes or an hour—I couldn’t tell. My legs were cramping from being curled up under the desk, and my hands were sweaty from gripping my knees. Whispers started up again, soft and frantic. “I heard it’s a shooter,” someone said. “No, it’s a bomb threat,” another voice countered. “My cousin said there was a shooting at the base school.”
My stomach dropped. The base school—where my dad was. I wanted to scream, to run out and find out what was happening, but I was stuck, trapped in this dark, silent room with nothing but fear and rumors.
Finally, the PA crackled again. “All students and faculty, proceed to the gymnasium for further instructions. Move quickly and quietly.” The words didn’t make sense. The gym? Weren’t we supposed to stay in our classrooms during a lockdown? I looked at Mr. Johnson, hoping for answers, but he just shook his head, his brow furrowed.
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Stay together, stay low, and don’t make a sound.”
We crawled out from under our desks, stiff and shaky. My legs felt like jelly as I stood, and I noticed Emily wiping tears from her cheeks. We lined up at the door, and Mr. Johnson checked the hallway before motioning us to follow. The corridor was a ghost town—lockers stood open, papers scattered on the floor, a lone backpack abandoned in the middle of the hall. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting long shadows that made every corner look threatening.
As we moved toward the gym, I caught glimpses through the windows. The parking lot was swarming with police cars, their lights flashing blue and red, cutting through the dimness. Officers in tactical gear were stationed around the building, rifles in hand, scanning the area. My throat tightened. This was real—too real.
The gym was already packed when we got there, a sea of students and teachers crammed together. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and fear, and the bleachers were filled with kids sitting shoulder to shoulder, some hugging their knees, others whispering in tight clusters. I spotted my friend Jamie near the back and pushed my way through the crowd to reach her.
“Jamie, what’s going on?” I asked, keeping my voice low. Her face was pale, her dark hair sticking to her forehead with sweat.
“I don’t know,” she said, her eyes darting around. “I heard there was a shooting at the base school—on a bus or something. Someone posted about it on Snapchat.”
My heart sank. “My dad’s at the base school,” I said, my voice cracking.
She grabbed my hand, squeezing it. “I’m sure he’s okay. They’re probably just being extra careful here because of what happened there.”
I nodded, but I didn’t believe it. I tried my phone again—no signal. The gym’s concrete walls were like a fortress, blocking everything. I felt like I was suffocating.
Rumors were flying now, bouncing around the gym like a swarm of bees. “I heard a kid brought a gun to school,” one girl said. “No, it’s a guy in a van outside,” another insisted. “Someone saw him with a mask.” I tried to block it out, but every whisper added to the knot in my stomach.
Then I overheard two teachers talking nearby, their voices low but clear. “It’s that Snapchat post,” one said, a woman with glasses I recognized from the English department. “Some kid posted pictures of guns with a threat against the school.”
“Yeah, they’re trying to track him down now,” the other teacher, a guy with a beard, replied. “They think it’s connected to the base school incident.”
Snapchat. My mind flashed to a post I’d seen a few days ago from a kid in my grade—let’s call him Jake. He’d shared a story showing himself posing with what looked like real guns, the caption reading, “Watch out, [school name], you’re next.” I’d thought it was just him being an idiot, trying to act tough. But what if it wasn’t? What if Jake was the reason we were all here, terrified and hiding?
Before I could process it, a shout came from the gym entrance. “He’s here! He’s got a gun!” The room erupted into chaos. Kids screamed, diving under bleachers or behind the folded-up volleyball nets. I grabbed Jamie’s arm, pulling her down with me behind a stack of gym mats. My heart was racing, and I could barely think. I peeked out, trying to see what was happening.
A figure in black was moving toward the gym, something in his hand. My breath stopped. But then I realized it was just Mr. Thompson, the PE teacher, holding a walkie-talkie. His dark jacket had made it look like a weapon from a distance. “False alarm! False alarm!” someone shouted, and the panic slowly died down, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
We sat there for what felt like hours, the gym growing hotter and more claustrophobic by the minute. Some kids were crying openly now, others staring blankly at the floor. I kept checking my phone, hoping for a signal, but it was useless. All I could think about was my dad. Was he safe? Was he locked down too? Or worse?
Finally, the PA crackled again. “Attention everyone, the lockdown is over. The threat has been neutralized. Please return to your classes.”
A wave of relief washed over the gym, but it was tinged with exhaustion. We were all drained, like we’d just run a marathon. As we shuffled out, I finally got a signal on my phone. I called my dad, my fingers fumbling over the screen.
“Alex, are you okay?” His voice was tense but steady.
“I’m fine, Dad. What happened over there?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“There was a shooting on a bus near the school,” he said. “Some kid opened fire, but the police got him. Everyone’s safe here. What about you?”
“We had a lockdown too. They didn’t tell us much, but I think it was because of a Snapchat threat. I was so scared for you.”
“I know, son. I’m glad you’re okay. We’ll talk more when you get home.”
I hung up, my legs weak with relief but my mind still spinning. As we walked back to class, the hallways felt different—empty, eerie, like the school itself was holding its breath. The scattered papers and abandoned backpacks were still there, like relics of the chaos.
That night, at home, I couldn’t shake the fear. My mom kept asking if I was okay, hovering over me with a worried look. “I’m fine,” I said, but I wasn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard those footsteps in the hallway, saw the flashing police lights, felt the weight of not knowing if we were safe.
The next day at school, everything was quieter than usual. Kids moved through the halls in small groups, whispering, avoiding eye contact. I saw Jake in the cafeteria at lunch, sitting alone at a table, his head down. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I walked over, my hands clenched into fists.
“Jake,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.
He looked up, startled. “Hey, Alex. You okay? That lockdown was insane, huh?”
“Yeah, it was. About that Snapchat post you made—the one with the guns and the threat. Was that supposed to be a joke?”
His face flushed, and he looked away. “Yeah, man, it was just stupid. I was messing around, trying to look cool. I didn’t think anyone would care.”
“People cared, Jake,” I said, my voice shaking. “We were all terrified yesterday. The school thought it was real. You know they’re looking for whoever made that threat, right?”
He swallowed hard, his eyes darting around. “I didn’t mean for anything to happen. I swear, it was just a dumb post.”
I wanted to yell, to shake him, but I just shook my head and walked away. What was the point? He didn’t get it, and maybe he never would.
School didn’t feel the same after that. Every loud noise made me jump, every unexpected announcement made my heart race. We had assemblies about online safety, about reporting threats, but it didn’t erase the memory of those hours in lockdown. The fear had settled into my bones, a constant reminder that safety was fragile, that a single post, a single moment, could turn our world upside down.
My dad and I talked a lot that week, mostly about how things were changing—how schools weren’t the safe havens they used to be. He told me about the drills they were running at his school now, about the bulletproof vests some teachers were talking about buying. It made me sick to think about, but it was our reality now.
Sometimes, late at night, I’d lie in bed and think about those footsteps in the hallway, the way they stopped outside our door. I’d wonder what would’ve happened if they hadn’t moved on, if the threat had been inside our school instead of across town. I didn’t have answers, and maybe I never would. But one thing was certain: that day had changed me, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel truly safe again.
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