Teacher Horror Stories: Halloween Special

By: Aneesha Gill, Samu Liu, and special guest writer Mr. Gardiner

Happy Halloween, Westmount! For Halloween 2023, we are publishing a special set of short stories following interviews of various participating teachers.

Mr. Gardiner's Story

**Shoutout to Mr. Gardiner for writing this story!

I stared at the rows of empty benches in the gym locker room, the harsh fluorescent lights casting shadows in the corners. The final bell had rung, signaling the end of another school day, and my students had left in a hurry. But there was one thing that lingered, one thing that sent shivers down my spine every time I stepped into that room - the smell of the grade 8 boys.

As a middle school gym teacher, I had become all too familiar with the unique aroma that clung to the air after my students vacated the locker room. It was a mixture of sweat, body odor, and something more sinister, something unexplainable. It wasn't merely the scent of adolescents going through the throes of puberty; it was something deeper, something unsettling.

The air was thick with the musky odor that seemed to permeate every corner of the locker room. It clung to the benches, the lockers, and the discarded gym clothes. The scent was pungent, almost as if the room had absorbed the essence of its inhabitants. The walls, once a pristine white, had taken on a sickly yellow hue, and the ceiling tiles appeared stained as if they were weeping in despair.

It wasn't just the smell, though. It was the feeling that accompanied it. Whenever I was alone in that locker room, I couldn't shake the sensation that I was being watched. I would hear faint whispers and sometimes catch glimpses of movement out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned to investigate, there was nothing there.

One evening, as I was preparing to lock up the locker room after practice, I heard a soft, muffled sob coming from the far end of the room. Startled, I looked up, but there was no one there. The sobbing grew louder, and I followed the sound to the back corner of the locker room. It was there that I saw a shadowy figure, hunched over, its head buried in its hands.

"Who's there?" I asked, my voice trembling. The figure didn't respond, but the sobbing continued. My heart pounded in my chest as I cautiously approached, and as I reached out to touch the figure, it dissolved into thin air, leaving only the lingering smell of the grade 8 boys.

I fled the locker room that night, vowing never to return. I couldn't explain the inexplicable, but I knew that the smell of the grade 8 boys had taken on a life of its own within those walls, and it was something far more sinister than I could ever comprehend. The locker room had become a haunting, a place where the scent of adolescence concealed something darker, something beyond the understanding of a mere teacher.

Mr. Finlay's Story

I was excited to go to the robotics competition. I was sure that my team would win first, or at least we’d place. We’d worked so hard—we needed this win.

My team and I were in the robotics stadium, working hard and beating all the other teams there. There was no doubt about it—the win would be ours. We beat team after team, and we watched as their dreams and goals of winning this competition were crushed by our amazing robots and programming skills. We watched one by one, as tears started to form in their eyes as they watched us advance to the next round, them being eliminated and sent home.

In my heart, I feel pity for the other teams. I feel sympathy. I understand their emotions. We all worked so hard to get to the top, and it’s heartbreaking when we get defeated.

I looked around as the other teams walked away, their heads drooping, teary-eyed, and holding their sad little robots. Unlike his other defeated teammates, there was one kid who did not look sad one bit. He looked up, his back straight and tall, and he looked me right in the eye.

When he looked at me, I felt true fear for the first time. When our eyes locked, I felt like the world had stopped, that time had stopped, and that everyone else was moving but I wasn’t. I did not understand that feeling, but I did understand that this kid was going to ruin my life, just because our team beat theirs. I knew in my heart that he would destroy my whole being just because our team beat theirs. I knew that he would probably kill me and get away with it, just because our team beat theirs.

He mouthed something at me. Maybe he mouthed it at someone else. But I felt like it was aimed towards me. I didn’t know how to feel. Should I tell someone? I felt unsafe. For the rest of my life, I felt unsafe, because this one kid at a robotics competition mouthed something and glared at me. But it was much more than that.

There was something off about him. Something strange. Perhaps we were mortal enemies in a past life.

Perhaps I did something terrible to him in a past life, and he remembered. He was going to make me pay. I always believed in karma. I always believed that karma would get you good, and I was not exempt from it. Even if I destroyed some kid’s whole wellbeing and sanity in a past life, I would never be able to escape karma.

Eventually, after six more rounds, our team won. I could never shake the feeling that this kid’s deep black eyes were watching me as I cheered with joy every time we defeated another team. From that moment on, his deep black eyes that, I swear, shone red sometimes, were always watching me. I could never enjoy myself. When I was biting my nails in suspense, wishing on a shooting star somewhere in the universe, that we would win the round, I could feel his eyes on me. Even the mere thought of his eyes affected me. During my proudest, happiest moments, during my own victories, I could not celebrate normally, because all I thought of were his eyes on me, and how I would never be able to shake them away.

We were heading back to our hotel with our ginormous trophy in hand. My teammates were shouting happily and jumping up and down while I hung my head low, wondering what the kid with black eyes that shone red was doing right now. Probably planning my death. Probably researching how to get away with a murder. He was going to kill me in this life, the next, and every one after that one.

I could see another group, trophy-less, also making their way back to their hotel. I knew it was a robotics team—I could tell from the multiple robots they held. I could see numerous cars driving by, despite it being past ten. Most of the cars had their headlights on and shining, except one.

As we walked a block, another block, then another, we saw this other group going across a crosswalk. Except for this one silhouette of a kid. Wow, I thought to myself. If you get hit, it’s your fault.

And he did.

When we were walking, we heard the car with no headlights on zooming by. We heard it first, it was going so fast. And just as it took the sharpest turn known to man, it hit the kid jaywalking.

The car had already left the scene, and the other team was screaming, while ours was in shock, jaws on the floor. The leader of the team was frantically calling someone, who I assumed to be the police. As the team leader, I directed our team to quickly leave the scene, as we had nothing to do with this.

I jerked my head back to get one final good look at the kid on the ground. Under the shine of the streetlight, I could see that this kid’s skeletal structure was seriously messed up. I saw the contortions of his body, the positions that no human should ever be in. I saw how roughed up his hair looked, and the blood everywhere on his body.

But I noticed his eyes first. His big, wide, black eyes that shone red. And I knew. It was the same kid who was probably going to kill me.

His eyes were moving. And then I saw him lock eyes with me, again. I’m going to get you, his eyes seemed to say. I’m going to get you good.

Traumatized, I took the next flight home immediately. To this day, I wonder where that kid is now.

To this day, I wonder if he still remembers me. And to this day, I look both ways before crossing the road.

Ms. Pinnock's Story

One glance at our school before the year 2011, and you would actually start to wonder if the place was haunted. When Westmount Charter School first opened its doors, the students, and even teachers, would think twice before entering the school. The air possessed a twisted story, leaving people with a sickening feel even after leaving. Inches of the roof were lined with intricate cobwebs, with the spiders trying to weave a story of their own. Electricity was sometimes scarce, with the occasional blackout during the dark winter months; swallowing you whole in a matter of seconds.

September had surprisingly warm weather that year. On that particular day, it rained. The wind whispered through the cracks in the windows, accompanied by a deep sorrow that the rain held. The weather seemed to play tricks on my mind that day, forcing me to believe in something that I vowed never to put my trust in.

That day, something gloomy lurked in the air. Something that I just couldn't put my finger on. It followed me around that day, like a scar that just wouldn't fade.

When my students came clambering into the classroom, excited for the forensic fingerprinting activity we were going to complete, I started feeling uneasy. Suddenly, my stomach twisted into knots, as if trying to warn me that what I was about to do would end in disaster. When I look back, I think I should have listened.

As my students dug their fingers into the black ink, with little splashes flying everywhere, I started to think that this was not a good idea. A chill was sent down my spine while I was marking student work. I started to brew a tornado of irrational thoughts as to why I should stop the class. I must have been completely frozen as I dived into the bottomless pool of my own thoughts, drowning. Maybe you should stop the class, my body told me with force Maybe you should take a break, a breather. My mind told me that the show must go on, and still shone its light through the dark alleyways of unfortunate scenarios, which were being carved with a knife into my brain. There was one distinct memory that still sticks with me to this day. Flashes of dark water rushing in my head, With a suffocating feeling that I just couldn’t shake.

Then I heard it. I really heard water splashing down with the intensity of a steep waterfall. It’s in your head, I convinced myself. But that just wasn’t enough. Abruptly, a student cried my name, and I was snapped back into reality.

They were washing their hands in the sink, complaining that the water wouldn’t stop. I swiftly got up from my desk, and peered over to see what the issue was. Water mixed with the dark hue of the ink was pooling in the sink.

I started to hear clanking coming from underneath the sink, and had a vague notion of what was about to happen. My students and I listened in suspense, when an explosion of water came out, stopping my heart.

Drenched and deathly quiet from shock, we watched as other sinks in the lab sent a steady flow of water from the tap, turning our heads to look at each one.

I swear on my life that I saw the handles turn. The little knobs of the sink let out a blood-curdling screech as they turned on. Water had started to pool in a massive puddle everywhere in the classroom.

Alarmed, I splashed around in the almost knee-deep water, with drenched shoes that squelched with every step. Scrambling, I yelled instructions to tell my students to try and find anything to scoop the water up with. I hurriedly called the office to shut off the water supply, for anything to clean the water with. Not even a bucket and mop existed in the school at this time. Students hurriedly found cardboard boxes to contain as much water as they could. After a few minutes, the water came to a halt. Everything on the floor and counter was soaking wet. The water seeped through papers, with the pen ink spreading to form a language of its own.

I never believed in the paranormal, and vowed I never would. But I think it’s fair to say that not everything has a scientific explanation.

Ms. Ward's Story

Destruction leaves nothing behind except for the stories that haunt the place and people. When something is destroyed, it does not mean that it is gone forever. It can still exist in stories, possessed by people who have the lock and key to a whole other world of twisted tales.

A small room, cloaked with shadows and mystery, exists in our school. Although it is impossible to ever witness, it still exists. Upon entrance, it looks like an ordinary room. A room that was painted a menacing shade of black.

What made this room so menacing? You ask. It’s just a room with black walls. Perhaps it was the fact that our school was abandoned before it opened. Or maybe it was just the cobwebs that nobody decided to clean.

For all I know, it might as well have been the word written on one of the walls. A word written with a faint shade of red, with each letter engraved so deep, it warns you not to enter.

As silly as it may sound, this word was “REDRUM”. Complete nonsense right? How could a word like this send a chill down your spine? You might be able to solve this mystery on your own. **Hint- What is a word used to describe the killing of one human by another? (Starts with an M and ends with a R)**