The Last Classroom Light

The Last Classroom Light

Hillridge High was like any other school. Students groaned through Monday mornings, teachers fought to keep eyes on them, and janitors waited patiently for the final bell to signal their real work could begin.

But if you stayed late enough — past the last slammed locker, beyond the final sweep of a mop — you'd hear whispers among the staff. Not about students or salaries, but about one particular room: Room 13

It wasn’t the number that made teachers uneasy. It was the light.

Every night, the last teacher to leave swore that Room 13’s overhead light would be glowing, even when the rest of the school was drowned in darkness. Even after the power was shut off completely.

At first, everyone thought it was just bad wiring — a breaker left untouched, or a prank. But electricians came and went. They rewired the entire wing once. The light still turned on. Always last, always alone.

Ms. Clara Rennings, a literature teacher with over twenty years at Hillridge, was the first to speak of it seriously.

“I stayed back late grading essays,” she told the others in the breakroom one rainy morning. “I saw the janitor kill the power at 10:30. Everything went black. I walked down the hallway toward the exit... and that light. That damn white light was on again. Flickering.”

Her voice had trembled. She was not the type to get scared — she’d broken up fights and once chased a raccoon out of the teacher’s lounge with a mop. But that night, she refused to walk past Room 13 again. She began leaving by the back exit instead.

Rumors followed. Some said a student had died in that classroom. Others said it used to be the principal’s office before the fire in '92. One of the janitors, old Tom, claimed he once heard whispers coming from behind the closed door of Room 13 after midnight — soft murmurs, like someone reciting a lesson.

No one ever stayed long enough to check.

That is, until Daniel Marsh, a fresh-faced history teacher who’d just joined Hillridge, heard the story.

Daniel was a skeptic. “It’s just a stuck switch,” he laughed. “Maybe someone’s messing with you all.”

So, one Friday night, he volunteered to stay late. Alone.

The hallways were unnervingly quiet after dark. Daniel sipped from a thermos of black coffee and graded a stack of papers at his desk in Room 21, occasionally glancing at the hallway clock.

At 10:30 sharp, the power was shut off. The familiar click echoed through the hallways, and the humming of overhead lights ceased.

Darkness swallowed the school.

He stood up, grabbed his flashlight, and stepped into the corridor.

Nothing but silence. All the classrooms were shrouded in black, just as expected.

All, except Room 13.

That light was on. Again. Bright. Unwavering.

Daniel furrowed his brow. “Okay, let’s see what the fuss is about.”

He walked toward the door.

The closer he got, the more static he heard — a low, humming buzz, like a distant radio stuck between stations. The air felt heavier, colder.

He reached for the door handle.

Locked.

He knocked. “Hello? Anyone in there?”

No response.

Suddenly, the light insde flickered rapidly — on and off, faster and faster. Then it stopped, glowing steady once more.

Daniel stepped back, a chill creeping up his spine.

Then, through the small rectangular glass in the door, he saw it.

A silhouette. Just for a second.

It was standing by the teacher’s desk — tall, still, unblinking.

He stumbled back. The hallway was dead silent. The static was gone.

Daniel bolted to the janitor’s closet and fetched old Tom.

“I swear to God there was someone in there,” Daniel said, breathless.

Tom just gave him a look. “Now you believe me?”

On Monday morning, Room 13 was open as usual. The light off. Nothing unusual inside. Daniel peeked inside — clean desks, empty whiteboard, dust gathering in corners. No signs of life.

He asked the principal if the room was in use.

“Room 13?” Principal Reynolds asked. “That’s the odd thing. It’s been on the roster for years, but we haven’t used it since… well, since the fire. That whole section was rebuilt. That room just... stayed empty.”

Daniel dug through the archives. And found it.

In 1992, a substitute teacher named Eleanor Grey had suffered a breakdown during her first week teaching. No one knew what caused it, but according to the report, she had locked herself in Room 13, writing on the chalkboard over and over for three straight days before anyone realized she hadn’t gone home.

When they broke in, she was unconscious. The words on the board?

“Never turn off the light.”

She never spoke again.

She died in a care facility ten years later.

From that week onward, Daniel avoided Room 13 after dark. He left earlier. He stayed in lit rooms. He no longer laughed at the other teachers.

And every night, as the janitor cut the power, Room 13’s light still came on.

Never first.

Never last.

Always alone.

To this day, no one dares enter when it's glowing.

They just walk faster, eyes averted, whispering the same warning Eleanor once wrote.

“Never turn off the light.”