Room 001 – Hana Kumar 

A lot has changed here at Lincoln since last year. 

For one, we have to put our phones in these little slots called the “phone zone”. Super annoying. Some new teachers are here now. But most importantly, some teachers left. Well, one teacher left.

I’m reminded of Mr. Smith’s presence as I stand in the doorway of his basement-floor room-001 Typical me. I knew my Spanish teacher was on her last straw with me when I kept forgetting how to say “birthday” (Seriously, though- how do you say “birthday”? Crumple- something?) and when I got fed up with her nagging, I may have yelled at her just a little bit. Or a lot. Point is, just over a month into the school year, I’ve got my first, and probably not last, detention of the year. They don’t call it detention, though- just “Disciplinary Action”. Maybe calling it “detention” will get them sued. 

Me and two others were assigned to clean the basement, and the rest of us troublemakers were distributed throughout the other floors to clean the classrooms. I don’t have any classes down here this semester, so it’s cool to come back down after a year or so. It’s been pretty silent, for the most part. I haven’t seen the other two students in a little bit- but the principal said that’s normal. Once you’ve finished cleaning your section, you’re free to leave, no saying goodbye or checking out or anything. I guess last year people were freaked out because they thought the others were getting kidnapped. I’m not that dumb, so I take the silence as a sign they’ve cleaned the rest of the basement. 

So…I guess I’m alone now. Standing in the doorway of a musty classroom that looks to have not been touched in ten years, even though it’s barely been one. They never turned room 001 into another class. Just left the remnants of what used to be Mr. Smith’s math class down here, posters and all. A couple streaks of marker were still on the whiteboard. 

I had him in freshman year. He was probably the best teacher I’ve had. Full of life. Always making the class smile, even though it was math. I despise math, and I even enjoyed it then. I look at where I used to sit in geometry, my chair for most of the year, still the exact same. It’s like looking into a time capsule. I reach down to check the time on my phone, and then remembered the principal made us hand them in before cleaning started. I look up at one of the old clocks. 12:04. 

Wait. I remember them saying we couldn’t leave until after 12:30, even if we had finished cleaning. Obviously I wouldn’t be done by then, but how come it’s been silent down here for the last hour? Where did the other two people go? 

I leave my broom in the doorway of room 001 and begin looking around the other parts of the basement for them. But there’s no sign they were ever here. Something catches my eye once I’ve made it back to where room 001 is- in the hallway leading to the room, a sparkly pin. …Isn’t this Ava’s pin? Ava was down here with me. I saw her just an hour ago. And now she’s gone and her pin is here. 

I call out for her again. “Ava? Hey, Ava, I’ve got your pin. I think you should come get it. Ava!” After minutes of no response, I put the pin in my pocket and take a seat on one of the benches. I chuckle to myself. It’d be so funny. If somehow I screwed up and ended up dying down here on this weird endeavor- which, to be frank, seems like something I’d do. No one would know, because we can just leave whenever. And I skip school too much for my teachers to notice. I never skipped Mr. Smith’s class. 

I look up at the empty doorway of room 001, my lonesome broomstick still propped against the wall. I trudge over. Maybe they let Ava and whoever the other guy was leave early. Not that I care that much. But if I have nothing else to do, then I don’t see why I can’t snoop in the classroom of my old teacher. Maybe he had some dirty secret no one knew about. I can’t imagine that’s true, though. He was the best guy ever. The kind that couldn’t keep a secret if he tried, I bet. 

Still, I leave the broomstick where it is and walk through the doorway straight to his desk. In all the movies, the juicy stuff is in the drawer. So I open the drawer. Nothing too interesting, just some papers, some pens, a notebook here and there, some stuff he probably took from students and forgot to return. I’m about to close it, and then- 

“From Jenna” reads a note. I pick it up. Who’s Jenna? 

Slowly I unfold it and read what it says inside. “I will get you out of this school if it’s the last thing I ever do. You know what you did and you know you don’t deserve this.” 

What. What did I just read? How can this “Jenna” get him out of the school- 

Oooohhh. Jenna. Jenna Gibson. Ms. Gibson. The principal who worked here the last few years until she quit before this one. No one really knew where she went either. 

What did Ms. Gibson have against Mr. Smith? I rummage through the drawer, looking for something, anything- “I bet it’s still in the closet.” It catches my eye. I yank it from the mess of papers I’ve made and unfold that one, too. This time it says “From Fred.” Fred’s the name of another teacher that left, Mr. Lewis. He said he was leaving Lincoln to go travel the world. It reads, “The only thing keeping you at Lincoln is the students. But you know not one of us staff likes you. We know your secret. You do too. I bet it’s still in the closet.” 

What’s still in the closet? What are they talking about? Is it true every single staff member didn’t like Mr. Smith? 

The closet. I spot it on the other side of the room, a large door that I sometimes had to fetch supplies out of- not since last year, though. Maybe I can discover what Mr. Smith was hiding. Maybe it’s the key to why he left, why all these people left. I walk over cautiously and open it. I feel bile pool in my stomach. 

“Ava…no.” My fellow detention-mate lies dead on the floor, blood spilling out of her mouth. Her eyes are fluorescent blue, wide open, and her hair is a mess- only one of the two usual pins there. I bring myself to look over to the side of her I can’t see, and gasp. 

A chunk of her arm is missing. And teeth marks cover where it used to be. 

I flick on the light switch and let out a roaring scream. Gavin is here, too. Gavin, that’s his name. The other guy down here in the basement. Brown eyes wide open, hair messy, and a full piece of his torso gone. Even though I’m about to throw up, I force myself to go farther into the closet. It’s big, I remember it being big, but not this big. I see faces I recognize. I can’t pinpoint exactly who they are, but I know them, and they look like they’ve met the same sad fate as Ava and Gavin. These corpses look older, as if they were killed quite some time ago. I step just slightly closer, trying not to inhale the foul stench of the rotting flesh beside me. 

“No.” 

I see the glistening golden ring still on the lady-corpse’s finger and recognize her instantly. Ms. Gibson. More of her has been eaten, and she hangs from a shelf far back in the closet. Below her feet is poor Mr. Lewis. His legs are nearly gone, not decayed, but consumed. And I think I know who did it. 

But I also know that I have to leave. Right now. First to vomit, because I’ve never seen a corpse before, let alone four, and then to tell someone. Anyone. Anyone who’s still here, I have to let them know. Ava is gone. Gavin’s gone. Ms. Gibson and Mr. Lewis have been gone for quite some time. The only person who’s gone but hasn’t been found is- 

“Boo.” 

Shakily, I turn around. A rotting, molding corpse resembling Mr. Smith stares at me. His irises are much too small and haunting. His smile stretches across his face, showing off dozens of rotting, blackened teeth. His skin is melting off, covered in welts. It’s like Mr. Smith if he died and got buried. And came back alive. 

Which now, after all that happened, doesn’t seem to be so unlikely. 

“Had to keep myself fed,” he says, his once jolly voice now raspy and low. I let out a shaky cry, wishing I had brought my broomstick in with me- at least I’d have a chance against him- it, whatever this thing is. But I know I don’t. Zombie-Mr. Smith’s grin only grows wider as I feel his rotting arms wrap around me, on my neck, suffocating me. 

I’ve always thought about death. I thought if I were to die young, it would be for something noble, like sacrificing myself to save a cat in the street or something. Or defending my mom from a gunman. I don’t know. Something heroic. But look at me now- out of all the places I could’ve died, it’s in Mr. Smith’s- room 001. And you want to know the best part? No one will even notice I’m gone. 

“And you still don’t even know my secret,” the voice rasps as I feel my lungs give out, my vision going blurry…and then black. 

Unreal – Ingrid Mabie 

When I walk into the room, I already know I want to leave. It’s funny at first, coming into the room, seeing thirty or forty teenagers all sitting cross-legged on the floor, papers in their hands, squeezed awkwardly into a small classroom that’s been poorly decorated to look spooky. There are black and orange papers pressed over the windows to try and create a sense of ethereal darkness, but it fails when you see the beams of bright October sunlight sluicing in from outside. Everyone shifts about, mutters to their friends, checks their phone to see if they have any new updates on TikTok or texts from their mom. Nobody’s scared, because why would they be? All we’re doing is hearing stories, and stories aren’t real. The teacher turns off the lights and crosses to the room, sits down in their chair. They ask in a tired voice, with just an echo of power, “Alright, who would like to go first?” Someone stands up, raises their hand. Papers rustle. Students shift, put their phones away at a curt nod from the teacher. Someone goes to the light switch and flicks out the lights with a CLICK. The reader begins, slow and trembling at first, then gaining pace and volume when they realize that no one’s going to kick them out of the room. I shift with the other kids, the room falling away from bored chatter to a sense of quiet uneasiness. It feels darker now, grayer and more claustrophobic, as the kid plows on, fumbling on in a low, determined voice about dark doors and long hallways and encroaching footsteps on the carpet. The black and orange paper on the windows flutter, but the sun behind it seems far away. I get the urge to look around, even though no one’s there. The reader drones on, their words picking up pace and snowballing together, forcing us deeper and deeper into the darkness of the room. I can’t see the door behind people’s heads, and I press my fingers deep into the carpet, trying to lock onto it and let the rest of this go, but the darkness is pressing in on us from all sides. There’s a low howl, a moan, a noise, from one of the students, or maybe it’s not, maybe it’s just the wind, but by now, it feels like there couldn’t be wind here, because there’s nowhere for it to come from, for us to go. The reader reaches the climax, their voice spiking and piercing, shards blowing through the darkness, and through the howling of the noise, the footsteps pounding, the doors creaking open, I can feel it, creeping up behind me. I feel it’s pressure against my back, crouching down into the carpet, pressing into me. I can feel it clenching around my chest, drawing out my breaths, pushing away my last hopes for air, my heart beating frantically, looking for a way out. It wraps around my head, clenching my face together, pressing in at the sides of my vision until my eyes start to fog over with the darkness. I hold onto the ground, but I can feel it snaking through me, clenching tighter, pulling and pulling until my grip weakens, and I start to spin, off, off into the darkness, and until I’m holding on by just a thread, and it’s pulling, pulling, tearing, digging its’ claws in to pull me apart piece by piece, until there’s nothing in my head but the air and terror, and it’s waiting for me to fall away, the reader droning on in the background like the footsteps that you know are the end, and all the while, you’re waiting, waiting, for the end to come and I’m waiting for the end to come and for the monster to snake around my throat and snuff out the light, and the reader’s voice pauses, and falters, and fades away, into the darkness. And the lights come back on. And I draw a shaky breath, pressing my hands to the carpet. And the monster ripples and fades away, and as I feel the carpet under my hands, all around me, rooted and solid, I can feel the pressure of it release. The claws disappear, let go, and the snaking tendrils vanish into the sunlight dust motes, all of it releasing, all at once, and I shake uncontrollably, my body trembling to make sure nothing’s still there, nothing’s hanging on, and my vision clears, and my face unclenches, and I know that it’s over, that it’s gone for now, that there’s nothing in the corners but shadows and remnants. I look up and breathe a rattling breath, hearing the words drift above my head as the teacher congratulates the student who read, pouring out compliments. They stand next to the door, the golden-brown wood of it awash in the rays of sunlight that are slipping through the paper into the room. A breeze flows in through the window, making the papers flutter, showing for a moment the brilliant blue sky just behind. The bell rings, a harsh blast into reality, and I grab my backpack, fumble for my papers, stuffing them into my bag as I flick a glance over my shoulder to just confirm that the monster’s not there. Maybe it never was. I push up off the floor, sling my bag over my shoulder, and stride out the door, hearing the wind, the papers, and the teacher’s words still whistling around the room behind me. Maybe there’s nothing there. Maybe there never was. I look back and wonder if it could even be possible. Isn’t it just a story? Aren’t stories not real? But maybe the stories are just like the monsters. Just because it’s not there doesn’t mean it’s not real. 

Legend of the Lincoln Library – Alice Prokop 

There is something strange going on at Lincoln. Something far older than any of us. They’ve tried to hide it. But while it might be quiet, it will never truly be gone. You won’t notice it during the day, when the sun is up, and the school is filled with people. But at night, when everything is dark and quiet, if you just stop… and listen… you’ll hear it. A quiet whispering. Words you can barely make out, that dance on the edge of your senses. It grows louder the nearer you get to the library.  

In 1911, a fire damaged the north end of the school. Nothing is certain, the facts having grown hazy with time. But the library is located at that end of the building, right where the fire raged. What was lost in the fire cannot be told. But if you listen hard enough, long enough, the whispered words begin to make sense, and you’ll realize that the words are stories. The stories from books lost over a hundred years ago.  

The stories lost to the flames will haunt us forever. They want to lure us in. When the school closed in 1981, it was because a girl followed the whispers of the books. No one ever saw her again. The truth was never made public and many years later the school reopened. Some say she is still there, wandering the aisles of the library. Sometimes a book will vanish, only to reappear a month later. The whispers continue… hoping to snare their next victim. For if you follow the whispers at night, you may meet the same fate. 

Writing Club – Anonymous 

The secret of Lincolns second basement has been protected throughout the school’s many lives. Only a few still know it exists, all records of it have been carefully whipped from the public’s knowledge. The second basement was blocked off mere months after it was built. Even those who know of it don’t know the reason. Some say a student was trapped inside and their ghost still haunts the floor to this day. Others say it disturbed the grave of an ancient spirt and awoke them from their slumber. Still others say the basement was never finished, instead it was abandoned when the equipment started malfunctioning resulting in the injuries of multiple workers. Whatever the reason, sometimes walking the halls of Lincoln you can hear screams coming from beneath the floor. 

In the Basement – Lou Lynch 

I have a math class in 003, is what he said to me  

The last I saw he had been walking down a blank staircase  

The hallway below empty from students  

still humming as if it was packed  

Once he had turned the corner I could no longer hear his footsteps,  

I wanted to say goodbye once again  

I was running down the stairs to catch up to him  

He had a math class in 003  

It had left my memory as soon as my hand turned with the knob. 

Lurking in the Library – Anonymous 

What lurks, what lurks, 

What lurks in the shelves? 

Are there cyborgs, or generals, or cute little elves? 

How do they feel, confined to their stories? 

I bet that they’re restless, 

They’ll search for new glories. 

If I knew things were living back there in the dark, 

I might hide away 

From a rebellious spark.