The Haunted Blackboard

It was an ordinary autumn afternoon at Ridgeway High School. The bell rang, echoing down the empty corridors as students shuffled out of their classrooms, eager to escape the monotony of another day of lessons. For most students, this was a time to head home, meet friends, or indulge in after-school activities. But for me, it was detention.

I was never one to get into trouble, but a careless misunderstanding with my math teacher, Mrs. Bates, landed me in an hour of after-school detention. And the worst part? I had to serve it in the old, unused classroom on the top floor of the school—Room 303. The room hadn’t been in regular use for years, ever since a new wing was added to the school, but it was still maintained, barely.

When I reached the classroom, the door creaked as I pushed it open. The hinges groaned in protest as if the room itself didn’t want me there. The room was dimly lit by the fading sunlight filtering through dusty windows. The desks were arranged in rows, forgotten, and covered in a thin layer of dust. At the front of the room, a large blackboard stretched across the wall, taking up almost half the space.

I settled into the desk closest to the door, my backpack thrown on the floor next to me. The only sound in the room was the quiet scratching of a pen as I began my assignment—a punishment from Mrs. Bates, who insisted I write a one-thousand-word essay on "respect in the classroom." I stared at the blank paper in front of me, trying to force my brain to focus, but my thoughts kept drifting to the eerie atmosphere of the room.

There was something unsettling about Room 303. It was colder than the rest of the school, the air heavy and stale, as if it hadn’t been properly ventilated in years. The shadows seemed longer, and deeper, stretching across the floor and up the walls. But what caught my attention most was the blackboard.

It was unusually pristine. In contrast to the dusty desks and grimy windows, the blackboard was spotless, its dark surface shining as if it had just been wiped clean. The wooden frame was polished, with not a speck of chalk dust anywhere near it. I found it odd. The rest of the room looked like it hadn’t been touched in ages, but the blackboard… looked almost brand new.

I tried to shake off the weird feeling that crept over me and began writing, the scratch of my pen echoing in the stillness. After a few minutes, though, a faint sound interrupted my concentration. It was so soft that at first, I thought I imagined it—a faint tapping, like fingernails gently drumming on a hard surface.

I glanced around, however the room was vacant, save for myself as well as my incomplete article. In any case, the tapping kept, becoming stronger and more purposeful. I stood up leisurely, my heart beating as I looked at the chalkboard.

There was a composed thing on it.

My breath was trapped in my throat. I hadn't heard anybody go into the room, and I positively hadn't seen anybody stroll past me. Yet, there, in clear, white letters, was a solitary word: "Hi."

I froze. The room was dead quiet, save for the fast crashing of my heart in my ears. I gazed at the word, my brain dashing. Perhaps somebody had composed it before and I simply hadn't seen it, I told myself. Yet, I realize that wasn't accurate — the chalkboard had been spotless when I strolled in.

"Who's there?" I called out, my voice shaking marginally. There was no reaction. I pushed toward the board mindfully, half-anticipating that something should leap out from the shadows. In any case, the room stayed still. As I drew nearer, I saw the chalk resting conveniently on the plate at the lower part of the board. Nobody had contacted it.

I snatched an eraser, my hand shaking, and cleaned the word away. The chalk vanished effectively, leaving no follow. I gazed at the writing board for a couple of moments, then got back to my work area. I wasn't going to let a stunt of the light or some trick ruin my confinement.

Yet, similarly, as I plunked down, the tapping continued — stronger this time, more unshakable.

I turned upward, and my heart almost halted. Words were scribbling themselves across the board, the chalk continuing all alone, scratching against the surface in fast, jerky movements. The letters seemed individual, framing a sentence: "You shouldn't have eradicated it."

The alarm flooded through me. I got my rucksack and hurried toward the entryway, yet when I pulled the handle, it wouldn't move. The entryway was locked. I yanked on it and took a stab at contorting the handle, yet maybe it had been fixed closed. My heartbeat revived as I turned around to confront the chalkboard.

Once more, the chalk moved, writing irately: "Don't leave."

Fear grasped me as I moved in the opposite direction from the entryway. The air in the room felt heavier, and the temperature decreased much more. My breath turned out in shallow wheezes, apparent in the freezing air. I was unable to tear my eyes from the chalkboard as additional words showed up: "We want you."

"We?" I murmured, my voice scarcely perceptible.

THe board appeared to right away answer. "We are caught."

Out of nowhere, the lights glimmered, projecting long, misshaped shadows on the walls. I felt a virus breeze brush past me, however the windows were shut. The room appeared to develop hazier, the sides of the space sinking into profound darkness. And afterward, faintly at first however developing stronger, I heard it — murmurs. Many voices, all talking on the double, their words incoherent however loaded up with desperation.

I staggered in reverse, my hands shaking. "What is it that you expect from me?" I yelled.

The writing board replied with chilling clearness: "Help us."

My psyche dashed. Was this a curved joke of some sort? A visualization? Or on the other hand, was something genuinely extraordinary occurring? I didn't have any idea what to accept, yet I knew a certain something — I expected to escape that room.

I beat on the entryway, shouting for help, yet nobody replied. The murmurs became stronger, encompassing me, consuming the space with their indiscernible supplications. The chalkboard kept on jotting, the words ending up being wild-eyed: "Assist us with getting away. Try not to leave us here!"

Then, at that point, as out of nowhere as it had begun, everything halted. The chalk dropped to the floor. The murmurs fell quiet. The lights got back to business as usual. The entryway, abruptly, clicked open.

I got my rucksack and escaped the room, not thinking for even a moment to think back. As I dashed a few doors down, I may as yet hear the weak reverberation of those words on the chalkboard in my psyche: "Help us."