Haha fair enough, man—I hear you. Let me drop the fancy structure and just talk like I’m sitting next to you in the back row.
Yo, scary stories at school are the best. You’re just eating your sandwich or waiting for the bell, someone leans in and goes “yo remember that thing about the bathroom…” and suddenly everyone’s locked in. It’s dumb, it’s fun, it’s kinda perfect.
The usual suspects: mirror ghost who actually answers, locker that slams itself at 3:17 pm sharp, that one creepy-ass shadow by the swings that doesn’t move when everything else does.
Half the time it’s hilarious—like the lunch lady who’s been dead for 20 years but still hates when kids cut the line. Other times… nah, those ones actually make you pause. You laugh, but later you’re peeing with the door open and the light on.
And those random moments? Locker bangs with nobody there. Walking through a cold patch in the middle of May. Footsteps behind you in an empty hall. Those stick. You try to shake ’em off but your brain’s like “remember me at 2am? cool.”
So yeah, next time you’re with your people, just do it. Lights off, under the table, whatever. Tell the stupid funny ones, tell the ones that make someone go “I’m out, peace.” Tell the one that still lowkey messes with you.
Nothing better than cracking up, yelling, then everyone going dead quiet like “…did you hear that tho?” Your turn bro. What’s the one that actually got you? I’m listening. 😈
How to Tell a Scary Story Like a Pro?
A good scary story does not begin with the monster. It begins with a pause, a detail that feels harmless, and a feeling that something is slightly wrong. By the time fear arrives, it is already too late to escape.
Set the mood right
Don’t just start talking. Kill most of the lights first—phone flashlight under your chin works wonders, makes your face look all creepy and shadowed. Or do it in a dark corner of the schoolyard after hours if you’re feeling bold. Low voice from the jump, talk slow, and pause a lot.
Like, actually stop talking for a second when it gets tense. That silence? It builds everything up. Whisper the creepy bits so they have to strain to hear, then BAM—yell for the jump part. Instant chills.
Here’s that classic flashlight-under-the-face vibe that never fails:
And a couple more of friends huddled up telling stories in the dark—pure school energy:
Throw in some sound effects
This is where you level up. Tap your fingers on the desk real slow for footsteps coming closer. Breathe heavy and close when the monster’s right there. Scratch your nails on something for that eerie scrape. And if you’ve got a book or backpack nearby—drop it hard or slam it at the peak. Everyone jumps. It’s cheesy, but it works every time.
Quick demo of the finger-tapping thing—super simple but adds so much:
Finger-tapping trick can sharpen your hearing against background …
Make it hit home
Best trick: use your actual school. “You know that old locker at the end of the B hall? The one that’s always jammed?” Or “Remember when the lights flickered in the library last week? Yeah, that’s when it started…” Suddenly it’s not some random story—it could be happening right now. Way scarier.
Imagine walking down a hallway like this after dark—empty, echoing, lights flickering:
Eerie School Hallway Stock Illustrations – 168 Eerie School …
Build it slow, then twist
Don’t rush to the scary part. Start normal: describe the place, the time of day, the little details (the smell of old gym socks, the hum of the vending machine). Let it creep up. Drop hints, make them question stuff.
Then when you hit the twist—boom. And don’t explain everything. End on a cliffhanger like “And sometimes… late at night… you can still hear her walking the halls.” Leave ‘em looking over their shoulders.
That’s it, bro. Practice a couple times in the mirror if you want, but honestly? Just own the pauses, use your voice, add a little noise, and tie it to real stuff around you. Your friends won’t know what hit ‘em.
Scary Stories to Tell Your Friends at School
Here are 7 short, original scary stories you can tell your friends at school. They’re meant to be told out loud in a low voice when the lights are dim.
The Desk That Answered
I still catch myself thinking about that desk sometimes, usually late at night when the apartment’s too quiet and I’m scrolling on my phone instead of sleeping. It’s stupid. I’m thirty-one now, living in a one-bedroom in Sydney’s inner west, paying ridiculous rent for a place that smells faintly of old carpet no matter how much I clean. Work’s steady—IT support for a mid-size firm, fixing printers and resetting passwords for people who should know better. Life’s mostly normal. But every now and then the memory hits me sideways and I’m right back in that classroom, sixteen, heart hammering like I’d done something wrong just by existing.
Lincoln High was nothing special. Brick building from the seventies, corridors that echoed, lockers dented from years of kids slamming them. Room 214 was on the second floor, English with Ms Hargrove. She was in her late fifties, wore the same rotation of floral blouses, always had a mug of tea that smelled like chamomile. Nice enough teacher, but she talked slow and we all zoned out halfway through her lessons on symbolism or whatever.
The desk was the weird bit. Last one in the back row, right by the window that rattled whenever a truck went past on the highway. Wooden top scratched to hell, metal frame rusted at the legs. Nobody sat there. Not once in the two years I had that class. Teachers never assigned it. If someone tried to claim it at the start of term, Hargrove would just shake her head and point to an empty spot somewhere else. Kids said it’d been empty since 1997. Story changed depending who was telling it. Some said a girl killed herself there. Others said she got murdered. A few swore she just stopped showing up one day and the desk started “acting up.” I never paid it much attention. High school is full of dumb myths. I had enough real problems—Dad working night shift at the refinery, Mum picking up extra cleaning jobs, me failing maths and pretending I didn’t care.
It happened on a Tuesday. Late autumn. Sky grey, air sticky. Silent reading period. Hargrove had given us some short stories to get through. I was halfway down the page, doodling in the margin, when Ryan leaned forward from the seat behind me. Ryan was the loud one. Always had a dumb joke ready, always trying to get a reaction. He tapped my shoulder, nodded toward the empty desk, and whispered just loud enough for a few of us to hear:
“You still here?”
He said it with that shit-eating grin, like he was daring the universe to prove him wrong.
Nothing happened at first.
Then the inside of the lid—the bit you lift to shove books in—started changing.
I saw it clear as anything. Letters forming one by one. Not scratched. Not carved. Just… appearing. Blue ink. Neat cursive. Like someone writing with perfect control, but no hand, no pen, nothing visible. “Yes.”
Ryan’s grin vanished. He stared. Blinked hard. Then he stood up so fast his chair scraped the floor loud enough to make Hargrove look over.
“Ryan?”
“Bathroom,” he mumbled. Grabbed his bag. Walked out. Door banged shut behind him.
Hargrove frowned but went back to her marking. The rest of us were dead quiet. A couple kids near the back had seen it too. One girl—Sarah, I think—covered her mouth. I just sat there, pulse thumping in my ears.
When the bell went I hung back. Waited till the room emptied. Lifted the lid slow, like it might bite me.
“Yes” was still there. Faded a little, but real.
Ryan didn’t come to school the next day. Or the day after. His mum rang the office, said he had gastro. Then mono. Then he just switched to another English class on the other side of the building. When I finally cornered him at lunch a week later he wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“Don’t ask,” he said. “Just leave it.”
I didn’t leave it.
I started sitting one row closer. Then another. By the end of the term I was right in front of it. Nobody commented. Kids avoid weird shit instinctively.
First time I spoke to it was during a vocab quiz. Hargrove was at the front reading emails. I leaned back, barely moved my lips.
“Who are you?”
No answer that day.
Next afternoon, after everyone left, I checked.
Under “Yes” it said “Mia.”
I felt cold all over. Not dramatic cold. Just… wrong.
I started asking things. Small at first.
“Will it rain Thursday?”
“No.”
It didn’t.
“Am I gonna pass this English essay?”
“Fix the conclusion.”
I rewrote it that night. Got a B+. First one in ages.
It wasn’t always useful. Sometimes it was brutal.
“Why doesn’t Dad ever stay home?”
“Work. Guilt.”
I sat with that one for days. Didn’t tell Mum. Didn’t tell anyone.
Dreams kicked in around then. Always the same. I’m small. Trapped inside something wooden. Scratching at the underside of a lid. Voices above me—kids laughing, chairs scraping—but I can’t make a sound. I wake up gasping, checking my fingernails like there might be splinters under them.
I went digging.
Library after school. Old newspapers on the public computers. 1997. Mia Lopez. Sixteen. Last seen leaving school late on a Thursday. Had been in Room 214 doing research for a history project. Reported missing Friday morning. Police said possible runaway. No note. No boyfriend drama. Family insisted she wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.
Her brother still lived in the same house. I rode my bike there one Saturday. Knocked. He was maybe twenty-five then. Tired eyes. Invited me in when I said I was doing a school thing on “local history.” Showed me photos. Mia laughing at a barbecue. Mia with braces. Mia holding a dog that looked like it was smiling too. Gave me photocopies of diary pages she’d left behind.
She wrote about feeling watched in class. Said the desk in the back corner “knew things.” Said it scared her but she couldn’t stop going back.
I took the pages home. Read them under my desk lamp while Mum was at work.
Next day in class I whispered: “What happened to you?”
It took ages. Longer than usual. Letters slow, shaky almost.
“Him. Stayed late. Locked door. Couldn’t scream.”
I felt sick.
Asked who “him” was.
“Kline.”
Mr Kline. Taught history in that room before Hargrove took over. Retired abruptly end of ’97. Moved to a fibro shack near the old reservoir. Everyone said he was “eccentric.” Some girls said he stared too long.
I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing. Not Ryan. Not Sarah. Not even my cousin who would’ve called me crazy.
One Friday after footy training I borrowed Mum’s car. Drove out there. Gravel road. Dust. Cabin looked like it might fall over in a strong wind.
Knocked.
Kline opened the door. Old. Thin. Eyes watery.
“School project,” I lied. “Interviewing retired teachers.”
He stared at me for a long beat. Then stepped aside.
Inside smelled like damp and instant coffee. Newspapers stacked everywhere. On the mantelpiece—a school photo. Mia. Same one her brother had.
I mumbled some questions. Heart so loud I thought he’d hear it.
Left after ten minutes. Hands shaking on the wheel.
Stopped at a servo. Used the payphone outside. Rang the non-emergency line. Gave an anonymous tip. Said check the cabin near the reservoir. Basement or under the floor. Something about a girl from ’97.
They found her three days later.
Remains. Shallow grave under a concrete slab he’d poured himself. Kline arrested that night. Confessed in the interview room. Said it started as “extra tutoring.” Said she got upset. Said he panicked. Said he never meant to kill her.
The desk went quiet after that.
Completely.
I tried once more, last day before summer holidays. Whispered: “You still there?”
Nothing.
Tried again the first week back in Year 12.
Blank.
School ripped it out during the Christmas break. Replaced the whole back row with new ones. Plastic tops. No character.
I finished school. Moved out at nineteen. Bounced around share houses. Got into IT because I was good at fixing things and didn’t want to talk to people all day. Met my partner at a pub trivia night four years ago. We’ve got a cat now. Planning to save for a deposit one day, maybe.
I don’t tell this story much. When I do, people laugh or say “classic high-school ghost shit” or ask if I was high. I wasn’t. I know what I saw.
Sometimes I think about Mia. Wonder if she’s finally gone. Or if she’s just waiting somewhere else. Another empty chair. Another quiet room.
I don’t whisper to furniture anymore.
But every now and then, when I’m alone in the flat and it’s too still, I catch myself listening.
Just in case.
Three Knocks Before Lunch
I still remember the first time I heard the knocks.
It was the start of Year 11. New timetable, new lockers down in the science wing corridor. That hallway always felt colder than the rest of the school—fluorescent lights flickering, tiles chipped, faint smell of bleach and old experiments gone wrong. Locker #108 was right at the end, near the fire door that never quite closed properly. Paint peeling off the number. Door dented like someone had kicked it years ago.
Nobody used it.
We figured it was broken. Lock jammed. Or maybe some kid got expelled and the school just never reassigned it. Either way, it sat empty. Door shut. Silent.
Until the knocks started.
Every single day at 11:47. Three soft taps. Barely audible unless you were standing close. Tap… tap… tap. Like fingernails on metal. Polite. Patient.
First week we just ignored it.
I mean, come on. School’s full of weird noises. Pipes. Vents. Kids messing around. I had enough on my plate—maths catching up to me, Mum working doubles at the hospital, Dad calling once a month from wherever his job had taken him this time. Three little knocks? Not my problem.
But you notice things when they’re consistent.
By the second week a few of us started lingering near #108 right before lunch. Me, Sarah from bio, and this quiet kid Lucas who always carried too many textbooks. We’d stand there pretending to check our phones or tie shoelaces. 11:46. 11:47. Tap… tap… tap.
Sarah pulled out her phone one day and hit record. Held it right up to the vent slits at the top of the door. The knocks came through clear on the audio later—three distinct, deliberate taps. No echo. No footsteps on the other side. Just metal vibrating softly.
We played it back in the quad at lunch. Volume up. A couple other kids crowded around.
“That’s creepy as fuck,” someone said.
“Yeah but it’s probably just the building settling,” I muttered. Even I didn’t believe it.
Third week the pattern changed.
Monday: knocks came from #112. Two lockers down from 108.
Tuesday: #115.
Wednesday: #119.
Every day moving closer. Same time. Same three taps. Soft. Insistent.
By Friday it was #123.
We started mapping it on Sarah’s Notes app. Little dots on a rough sketch of the corridor. A straight line creeping toward our lockers. Mine was #142. Sarah’s #140. Lucas’s #138.
We laughed about it at first. Nervous laughs. The kind where you’re trying to convince yourself it’s nothing.
But Thursday of that week the knocks came from #129.
Only thirteen lockers away from mine.
We stopped laughing.
That weekend I couldn’t sleep properly. Kept checking my phone for the time. Imagining the sound in my own room. Tap… tap… tap. Woke up at 3 a.m. convinced I’d heard it through the wall. It was just the neighbour’s cat scratching at something.
Monday rolled around. We got to school early. Stood in the corridor like idiots waiting for 11:47.
It came from #132.
Closer again.
Tuesday: #135.
Wednesday: #138.
That one was Lucas’s locker.
He went pale. Didn’t say much all day. Just kept staring at his locker like it might open on its own.
Thursday morning—yesterday—he didn’t show up.
Texted me at recess: “Not coming in. Feels wrong.”
I told him he was being paranoid. But when I walked past his locker at 11:46 I felt it too. Like the air got thicker. Heavier.
11:47.
Tap… tap… tap.
Right from inside #138.
Lucas’s locker. Empty except for a few textbooks and an old hoodie he never wore anymore.
The sound was louder this time. Not louder in volume. Just… closer. More present. Like whatever was making it was right up against the inside of the door.
Sarah grabbed my arm so hard it hurt.
We didn’t move until the bell rang for lunch.
After school we stayed behind. Waited until the corridor cleared. Tried Lucas’s combination—his birthday backwards. Door popped open.
Nothing inside but the usual mess. No marks. No scratches. No sign anything had been tapping from within.
We closed it. Locked it again.
Sarah whispered, “Tomorrow’s Thursday.”
I knew what she meant.
Lunch is at 11:50.
Which means 11:47 is three minutes before the bell.
Three minutes before the corridor fills with kids rushing out.
If the pattern holds…
It’ll be #141 tomorrow.
Right next to Sarah’s.
Or #142.
Mine.
I haven’t told anyone else. Not Mum—she’d think I’m stressed and make me see the counsellor again. Not the teachers—they’d say it’s pipes or rats or imagination. Not even Lucas properly. He’s ghosting group chat. Read receipts on, no replies.
I keep replaying the recordings in my head. The taps are too regular. Too soft. Too much like someone trying not to be heard.
I’ve started carrying my phone everywhere. Volume up. Ready to record.
Part of me wants to skip school tomorrow. Call in sick. Stay home under the covers.
But another part—the stupid, curious part—wants to be there at 11:46. Standing right in front of my locker. Waiting.
Listening.
Because if it knocks tomorrow…
If those three soft taps come from inside #142…
I don’t know what I’ll do.
Maybe open it.
Maybe run.
Maybe just stand there and whisper back:
“Who’s there?”
I’m not sure I want the answer.
But I think I’m going to find out.
Tomorrow.
11:47.
Three knocks.
And then lunch.
I’ll let you know what happens.
If I make it to lunch.
The Mirror in the Girls’ Bathroom
I never believed in bathroom mirror games.
You know the ones. Bloody Mary. Candyman. Light as a feather. All that kid stuff we tried at sleepovers when we were twelve, giggling in the dark with torches under blankets, half hoping something would happen, half terrified it actually would. I laughed them off. Always the skeptic. Even when my little sister swore she saw something in the upstairs bathroom at Nan’s house, I told her it was just the light playing tricks.
But the one in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor of Lincoln High? That one stuck.
It started as a dare, like everything does.
End of Year 10. Last week of term. Exams done. Everyone loose and stupid with freedom. A group of us—me, Sarah (same Sarah from the locker thing, small world), Priya from art class, and this girl Mia who’d just transferred in—were hanging around after school waiting for Priya’s mum to pick her up. The corridor was empty. Cleaners hadn’t come through yet. The place smelled like old paper and industrial lemon.
Mia brought it up.
She’d heard it from some Year 12 girl at her old school. Said the mirror in the last stall of the girls’ bathroom on level two was “special.” Not haunted exactly. Just… different. The rules were simple:
Stand in the last stall.
Close the door but leave it cracked—just enough to see the mirror across the way.
Count to thirteen. Slow. No blinking.
If you do it right, your reflection changes.
Not right away. Not dramatically. But when you hit thirteen, it’s not you anymore.
It’s the you that never left the building that night in 2009.
We laughed. Called it bullshit. But Mia was serious. Quiet serious. The kind where she didn’t smile while she explained it.
Sarah, of course, was in. “Let’s do it. What’s the worst that happens?”
I should’ve said no.
I said yes.
The bathroom was the old one near the art rooms. Three stalls. Flickering light above the sinks. Mirror long and streaked, the kind that’s been there since the school was built. We filed in. Shoes squeaking on tiles.
Mia went first. She stepped into the last stall. Closed the door until it was just a sliver open. We crowded around the sinks, watching through the gap.
She started counting.
One.
Two.
Three.
Her voice steady. We held our breath.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
We could see her reflection in the mirror through the crack. Normal. Bored expression. Hair tucked behind one ear.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
She stopped.
For maybe two seconds nothing happened.
Then she flinched. Hard. Like someone pinched her.
She yanked the door open fast. Face pale. Breathing quick.
“What?” Sarah asked.
Mia shook her head. “Nothing. Just… felt weird.”
But her hands were shaking.
Priya went next.
Same thing. Counted slow. Hit thirteen. Nothing obvious. She laughed it off. Said she saw her reflection blink when she didn’t. But she was blinking a lot after that. Like she couldn’t stop.
Sarah tried. Counted. Hit thirteen. Laughed. Said it was lame. But when she stepped out her eyes were wide. She kept glancing back at the mirror like she expected it to follow her.
My turn.
I didn’t want to. But they were all watching. And I hate being the one who backs out.
I stepped in. Pulled the door until the crack was just wide enough. The mirror looked normal. Dirty. My face staring back—same hoodie, same messy ponytail, same tired eyes from staying up too late revising.
I started counting.
One.
Two.
The light buzzed overhead.
Three.
Four.
My reflection looked exactly like me. Same small scar on my chin from falling off my bike when I was nine.
Five.
Six.
The stall felt smaller. Air thicker.
Seven.
Eight.
I focused on not blinking. Eyes starting to sting already.
Nine.
Ten.
Something shifted.
Not big. Just… off. My reflection’s mouth twitched. Like the start of a smile. But I wasn’t smiling.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Eyes burning now. Watering. But I didn’t blink.
Thirteen.
I held it.
And then it happened.
My reflection didn’t change all at once. It was gradual. Like someone slowly turning up a filter.
The eyes went first.
Black.
Not dark brown. Not shadowed. Completely black. No whites. No pupils. Just voids.
Then the smile.
Wide.
Too wide.
Cheeks stretching. Skin pulling tight. Corners of the mouth splitting just a little. Not bleeding. Just… opening.
She raised her hand.
Slow.
Waved.
Fingers long. Too long maybe.
I felt my own hand twitch. Like it wanted to wave back.
I didn’t.
I blinked.
Hard.
The reflection snapped back to normal. Just me. Panting. Eyes red and wet.
I shoved the door open. Stepped out.
The girls were staring.
Sarah: “You okay?”
I nodded. Couldn’t speak for a second.
Mia whispered, “Did you see her?”
I nodded again.
We didn’t talk much after that. Priya’s mum arrived. We scattered. Went home.
But I couldn’t shake it.
That night I dreamed about the bathroom. Same stall. Same crack in the door. Same count. Only this time when I hit thirteen, the reflection waved… and kept waving. Even after I blinked. Even after I left the dream.
Next day at school I avoided that bathroom.
Used the one near the library instead.
But Sarah texted me at lunch.
“Went back. Alone. Did it again.”
I asked why the hell she’d do that.
“She waved longer this time. Smiled bigger. I think she’s waiting.”
Waiting for what?
Sarah didn’t answer.
Two days later Priya said she kept seeing black eyes in every mirror she passed. Car mirrors. Shop windows. Her bedroom one at night.
Mia stopped coming to school for a week. When she came back she wore sunglasses indoors. Wouldn’t talk about it.
Me?
I started noticing things.
My reflection in the hall windows sometimes smiled before I did.
Just a flicker.
Gone when I looked straight.
I told myself it was stress. Exams. Family stuff. Mum working too much. Dad’s calls getting shorter.
But I went back.
One evening after detention. School mostly empty. I walked to the bathroom. Stood outside the door for ten minutes working up the nerve.
Went in.
Last stall.
Cracked the door.
Counted.
One to thirteen.
No blinking.
She was there faster this time.
Black eyes.
Split smile.
Waving.
Slower than before.
Like she had all the time in the world.
I stared.
She stared back.
Then—slowly—her other hand came up.
Pointed.
Right at me.
Through the mirror.
Through the crack.
Like she was saying: you.
I blinked.
Stepped back.
Door banged shut.
I ran.
Haven’t gone in that bathroom since.
Senior year we moved buildings for a term while they renovated that wing. New mirrors. New stalls. Bright lights.
The old one got torn out.
But sometimes, in other bathrooms, in other mirrors, I catch it.
A flicker.
A smile that starts before mine.
Black eyes for half a second.
I don’t count anymore.
Don’t play games.
Don’t look too long.
Because I keep thinking about 2009.
What happened that night.
Who didn’t leave the building.
And why she looks exactly like me.
Except for the eyes.
And the smile.
And the way she waves.
Like she’s been waiting.
All this time.
For me to wave back.
I never will.
But sometimes, late at night, when I wash my face and the mirror’s fogged up, I swear I hear it.
Soft.
From the other side.
One slow wave.
Tap… tap… tap.
Like knuckles on glass.
Counting.
Waiting.
For thirteen.
The New Janitor
I never paid much attention to the janitors.
They were just part of the background at Lincoln High. Ghosts in navy overalls who appeared after hours, mopping up whatever mess we left behind—spilled juice, tracked-in mud, the occasional puddle of vomit from someone who couldn’t handle their first hangover. You nodded if you passed them in the hall. Said thanks if they held a door. That was it.
Then the new guy started.
Last month. Early November. Cold already creeping in, mornings dark when we dragged ourselves to school. His name was on the roster—Mr. Elias—but nobody called him that. We just said “the new janitor.” Tall. Thin. Late fifties maybe. Grey hair cropped short. Always wore the same navy jumpsuit, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Moved like he had all the time in the world.
He only cleaned one hallway.
The east wing. Second floor. The one with the science labs and the old home ec room nobody uses anymore. Every night, around 3 a.m., the security guard doing rounds would see him on the monitors—mopping. Same strip of linoleum. Back and forth. Slow strokes. Water sloshing softly in the bucket. Even though school finished at 2:30 and the place had been empty for hours.
I only knew because my mate Lucas got detention a few times that month. Had to stay back helping the after-school program pack up. He’d walk past the east wing on his way out and hear it—the wet slap of the mop, the faint squeak of the wheels on the bucket. Always the same time. Always the same spot.
Lucas started timing it.
3:02 a.m. Mop hits the floor.
3:17 a.m. Still going.
3:41 a.m. Bucket rolls toward the stairwell, then back again.
Never varied.
One night Lucas hung around longer than he should have. Hid in the stairwell with his phone camera ready. Filmed a bit through the crack in the door. The footage was grainy—school cameras are shit—but you could see him clear enough. Mr. Elias standing in the middle of the gym. Not mopping. Not moving. Just… standing. Head tilted back. Staring straight up at the ceiling. Arms loose at his sides. Forty-seven minutes straight. Didn’t blink. Didn’t shift weight. Just stared.
Lucas showed me the clip the next day at lunch. We watched it twice in the quad, huddled over his phone.
“What the hell is he looking at?” I asked.
Lucas shrugged. “Nothing. Ceiling’s just ceiling. Acoustic tiles. Old water stains.”
We laughed. Nervous. The kind of laugh that doesn’t reach your eyes.
Next day Sarah cornered him.
Sarah’s the one who asks questions nobody else wants to. She found Mr. Elias in the east wing at 3:15 p.m.—not his usual time. He was wiping down the trophy case outside the gym. Glass squeaking under the cloth.
She didn’t waste time.
“Why do you stare at the ceiling like that?”
He stopped. Cloth still in hand. Turned slow. Looked at her with these pale grey eyes that didn’t seem to focus all the way.
Then he smiled.
Small. Polite. The kind of smile you give a stranger when they hold the lift door.
“I’m waiting for the one who still owes me a game of tag,” he said.
Voice low. Calm. Like he was commenting on the weather.
Sarah blinked. “What?”
He didn’t answer. Just went back to wiping the glass. Slow circles. No rush.
She backed off. Told us later she felt cold all over. Not scared exactly. Just… wrong.
That was Tuesday.
We didn’t see him Wednesday.
Or Thursday.
Or Friday.
The office said he’d called in sick. Then stopped answering calls. His locker in the staff room stayed locked. Uniform still hung inside when the head cleaner checked.
But the floors in the east wing?
Wet every morning.
Fresh mop marks. Water still beading on the tiles when we walked in at 8 a.m. Bucket lines crisscrossing the same stretch of hallway. Like someone had been there all night.
We started checking the security footage ourselves.
Lucas knew the guard’s password—don’t ask how. We pulled up the overnight recordings in the AV room during lunch one day. Fast-forwarded through hours of empty corridors.
There he was.
Every night since Tuesday.
Not walking in. Not leaving.
Just appearing at 3:02 a.m. in the east wing hallway. Mopping. Same strokes. Same bucket. Same slow pace. Then at 3:47 a.m. he stops. Sets the mop against the wall. Walks into the gym. Stands in the exact centre of the court. Looks up.
Forty-seven minutes.
Every night.
Same spot.
Same stare.
Then he picks up the mop again. Finishes the hallway. Wheels the bucket toward the storage closet. And disappears. Doesn’t walk out the door. Just… gone. Camera cuts to black for a second. When it comes back, bucket’s empty. Floor dry except for the fresh wet streaks.
We showed Sarah. She watched in silence. When it finished she said, “That’s not possible.”
But it was on tape.
We stopped going near the east wing after dark.
Lucas started sleeping with his light on. Said he kept hearing wet footsteps in the hallway outside his bedroom. Sarah changed her route to class—takes the long way now, avoids the science corridor completely.
Me?
I kept checking.
Every morning before first bell I’d walk the east wing. Look at the floor. Fresh mop marks. Every time. Smelled faintly of pine cleaner and something else. Something metallic. Like old coins.
Last week I stayed late. Had to finish a history assignment in the library. School mostly empty by 5 p.m. I finished around 6:30. Hallways dark except for emergency lights.
I walked past the east wing on purpose.
Floor wet.
Fresh.
I followed the tracks.
They led straight to the gym doors.
Double doors. One slightly ajar.
I pushed it open.
The gym was pitch black except for the exit sign glow.
I stepped inside.
Air cold. Echoey.
In the centre of the court—exactly where the footage showed him—stood the bucket.
Mop leaning against it.
Handle still dripping.
I froze.
Then I heard it.
Soft.
From above.
Tap… tap… tap.
Like someone drumming fingers on the ceiling tiles.
I looked up.
Nothing but shadows and old rafters.
But the tapping kept going.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Three taps.
Pause.
Three more.
Like a rhythm.
Like waiting.
I backed out fast. Didn’t run. Didn’t want to look like I was scared. But my legs felt heavy. Heart slamming against my ribs.
I haven’t gone back since.
But I know the floors are still wet every morning.
I know the bucket’s still there after hours.
I know he’s still standing in the centre of the gym some nights.
Staring up.
Waiting.
For whoever owes him that game of tag.
I keep thinking—who the hell is he waiting for?
And why does it feel like the longer he waits…
…the closer he gets to finding them.
I don’t stay late anymore.
I don’t walk the east wing alone.
But sometimes, when the school’s quiet and the lights are low, I swear I hear it.
Soft footsteps.
Wet soles on linoleum.
Coming down the hallway.
Stopping just outside the classroom door.
Waiting.
For someone to run.
So the game can start.
I don’t run.
But I listen.
And I wonder how long he’s been waiting.
And how much longer he’ll wait.
Before he decides the game’s already begun.
The Missing Page
I never thought a textbook could scare me.
History class. Room 312. Third period on Thursdays. Mr. Donovan droning on about the Industrial Revolution like it was the most fascinating thing since sliced bread. The room smelled like old paper and chalk dust. Windows fogged up from the heaters running too hard. Desks in neat rows, same as always.
The textbook was the standard one. “Australia and the World: 1788–Present.” Everyone got issued a battered copy at the start of the year. 287 pages. We all checked because Donovan made us number them in the corner to prove we hadn’t ripped anything out for notes.
Except one copy.
Third row. Left side. The desk by the radiator that always hissed.
That book had 288 pages.
Nobody knew when it started. Maybe it had been like that since the beginning of term and we only noticed in week six when we got to the last chapter. Someone—Priya, I think—flipped to the back during a boring bit and frowned.
“Guys. This one’s got an extra page.”
We crowded around. The book lay open on the desk like it was waiting for us.
Page 287 ended with the usual stuff: “The impact of globalisation on Australian identity continues to evolve.” Standard conclusion paragraph. Bibliography. Index.
Then page 288.
Blank except for one sentence. Handwritten. Blue ballpoint. Neat, looping cursive like a teacher’s.
“Stop reading at page 287 or I’ll finish the story myself.”
No name. No date. Ink looked fresh. No smudges.
We stared.
Sarah laughed first. Nervous. “Okay, who wrote this? Donovan’s prank?”
Donovan wasn’t the prank type. He barely cracked a smile when someone got a date wrong.
Lucas—same Lucas from the locker thing—picked the book up. Flipped back and forth. “It’s bound in. Not glued. Not inserted. It’s part of the signatures.”
We all felt it then. That cold prickle at the back of the neck.
We put the book back. Closed it. Pretended we hadn’t seen it.
But you can’t unsee something like that.
Next Thursday we checked again.
Still 288.
Still the sentence.
Still blue ink.
Priya took a photo with her phone. Zoomed in. The handwriting looked… familiar. Not Donovan’s. Not anyone’s we could place.
We started joking about it in group chat. “Don’t read page 288 lol.” “Bet it’s cursed.” “Whoever reads it gets detention forever.”
Nobody laughed hard.
Then last week happened.
Thursday again. Donovan was away—professional development day. Relief teacher, some supply guy who let us do “private study.” Which meant phones out, heads down, half the class asleep.
I was two rows back. Watched it unfold.
The kid in the third row left side—his name was Ethan. Quiet. Kept to himself. Good at history. Always finished early and just stared out the window.
He opened the book. Flipped to the end like he’d done it before.
I saw him pause at page 287.
Then turn.
One page.
He read the sentence. Lips moving slightly.
Then he smiled.
Small. Private. Like he’d just got an inside joke.
He closed the book. Packed his bag slow. Bell went. Everyone filed out.
I hung back a second. Looked at his desk.
The book was still there. Open to page 287.
No 288.
I flipped it myself. 287. End. Index. Nothing after.
I checked twice.
Gone.
Ethan didn’t come to school Friday.
Or Monday.
Or Tuesday.
His locker stayed shut. Combination unchanged. No one saw him leave the building that Thursday.
We asked around.
His mum rang the office Wednesday. Said he hadn’t come home Thursday night. Police got involved Thursday morning. Missing person. Standard procedure. Flyers up in the staff room. His photo—school ID shot—smiling awkward in front of the grey backdrop.
We didn’t tell them about the book.
How do you even explain that?
Sarah checked the photo she took. The one of page 288.
It was still there on her phone.
But when she zoomed in close—really close—the handwriting had changed.
Not much.
Just a little.
The loops on the “g” in “reading” were tighter. The dot on the “i” in “finish” was missing.
Like someone had rewritten it.
Slightly different hand.
We deleted the photo.
All of us.
Pretended we never took it.
The book’s still in the desk. Third row. Left side.
Still 287 pages.
Mr. Donovan’s back now. Doesn’t know anything about it. We haven’t told him.
Sometimes during class I catch myself staring at that desk.
The book sits there. Closed. Innocent.
But I swear—when the room’s quiet and Donovan’s writing on the board—I hear it.
Soft.
Like pages turning.
One.
Then another.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Like someone’s still reading.
Finishing the story.
And I keep thinking about Ethan.
Where he went.
What he read on that extra page after the sentence.
And why the handwriting changed.
And why the book went back to normal.
Like nothing happened.
Except someone’s missing.
And the story’s not finished yet.
I don’t open that book anymore.
I don’t sit in the third row.
But every Thursday, right around the time we used to flip to the end…
I listen.
And I wait.
To see if the pages turn again.
To see if another sentence appears.
To see if someone else gets curious.
And turns one page too far.
Because if they do…
I think the book’s still waiting.
For the next reader.
To finish what Ethan started.
And I don’t know how many pages are left.
But I’m pretty sure it’s not 287 anymore.
Not really.
The Choir Room Hum
I never liked the choir room much.
It was always too big for the number of kids who actually showed up. High ceiling. Acoustic panels that looked like grey egg cartons. Rows of folding chairs nobody ever straightened. The piano sat in the corner like it had been there since the school opened—black lacquered beast with chipped keys and a bench that wobbled if you shifted your weight wrong. After school the place was supposed to be dead quiet. Door locked. Lights off. Just the faint hum of the vents and the occasional drip from the water fountain in the hall.
But it wasn’t quiet.
Not if you listened close.
I found out by accident.
Late October. I’d stayed back for detention—forgotten homework again. Mr. Patel, the relief teacher, made me sit in the choir room because the library was booked for some staff meeting. He said, “Don’t touch anything,” and left me there with my notebook and a dying phone battery.
Room felt colder than the rest of the building. Echoey in a way that made every page turn sound loud. After about twenty minutes of staring at algebra I didn’t understand, I got bored. Wandered over to the piano. Lifted the fallboard. The keys were yellowed, some chipped. I pressed middle C. Sound died quick in the empty space.
Then I noticed it.
A low hum.
Not from pressing the key. From inside the piano itself.
Like fifty voices holding the exact same note. Soft. Steady. Just below hearing. The kind of sound you feel in your teeth more than your ears.
I leaned down. Pressed my ear to the lid.
There it was.
Clearer.
A single pitch. Perfect. Unwavering. Like a choir warming up but never starting the song.
I sat back fast. Heart doing that stupid jump thing. Told myself it was the strings vibrating from when I hit the key. Or air in the pipes. Or imagination.
But I kept going back.
Next day after school I snuck in again. Door was unlocked—someone must’ve forgotten. Same thing. Ear to the piano. Same hum. Same note. I timed it. Didn’t stop. Didn’t waver. Just held.
Sarah found me there the third time.
She’d come looking for her lost charger. Saw me hunched over the piano like an idiot.
“What are you doing?”
I told her.
She laughed at first. Then she tried it.
Her face changed after about ten seconds.
“That’s… not normal.”
We recorded it.
Used her phone. Held the mic right against the soundboard. Hit record. Left it there for three minutes. The hum came through clear on playback. Low. Resonant. Like a drone you could almost sing along to.
But there was something else.
Underneath.
Faint at first. Like it was buried deep in the file.
A voice.
Whispering.
One word repeated.
Her full name.
Sarah Elizabeth Nguyen.
Over and over.
Getting louder each loop.
Not shouting. Still a whisper. But building. Like someone leaning closer to the mic every time.
Sarah’s hand shook when she stopped the recording.
She played it again.
Louder still.
Sarah Elizabeth Nguyen.
Sarah Elizabeth Nguyen.
We listened three times before she deleted it. Hit the trash icon. Emptied the recently deleted folder. Swore she’d never go back.
Next morning she looked like she hadn’t slept.
In homeroom she pulled me aside.
“It’s in my phone.”
“What?”
“The hum. It’s coming from my phone. Even when it’s off.”
I didn’t believe her at first.
She pulled it out. Screen black. Powered down. Held it to my ear.
There it was.
Faint.
The same low drone.
And underneath—
Her name.
Whispered.
Getting louder the longer you listened.
She turned it on. The sound didn’t change. Didn’t come through the speaker. Just… emanated. Like the phone itself was humming.
She tried everything. Airplane mode. Do Not Disturb. Restart. Factory reset that night at home. Didn’t help.
The hum stayed.
Always there.
Always her name.
We told Lucas.
He tried to record it from her phone. Nothing showed up on his mic. Just silence. But we could hear it clear as anything.
Priya said maybe it was tinnitus. Stress. We all knew it wasn’t.
Sarah stopped bringing her phone to school.
Left it at home. Powered off. In a drawer.
Next day she came in shaking.
“It’s in my head now.”
Not loud. Not screaming. Just there. Background noise. Like when you live near train tracks and eventually stop noticing the rumble—except this one never faded. It got clearer. Her name repeated. Steady. Patient.
She started humming along without realizing.
Caught herself in the bathroom mirror. Mouth moving to the rhythm.
She stopped talking about it after that.
Just got quieter.
Sat in the back of class.
Stared at her desk.
One afternoon she didn’t show up.
Mum rang the office. Said Sarah wasn’t feeling well. Flu or something.
She missed three days.
When she came back she looked thinner. Eyes hollow. Kept her hoodie up. Didn’t talk much.
I asked once. Quiet. In the hallway.
“Is it still there?”
She nodded.
“Does it ever stop?”
She shook her head.
Then she whispered—barely audible—
“It’s not just saying my name anymore.”
I waited.
“It’s asking where I am.”
I didn’t know what to say.
She walked away.
That was two weeks ago.
Sarah still comes to school.
Sits in the back.
Doesn’t speak unless called on.
Her phone stays home.
But I see her sometimes.
Leaning against lockers.
Ear tilted.
Like she’s listening.
To something only she can hear.
And every now and then—when the halls are quiet between classes—I swear I catch it too.
Faint.
From somewhere down the corridor.
The low hum.
Fifty voices holding one note.
And underneath—
A whisper.
Not Sarah’s name.
Mine.
Soft.
Patient.
Getting a little louder each day.
I don’t go near the choir room anymore.
I don’t press my ear to anything.
But I still hear it.
Late at night.
When the house is still.
When my phone’s off and charging on the desk.
Low.
Steady.
Saying my name.
Over and over.
Like it’s waiting for me to answer.
Like it’s waiting for me to come back to the piano.
And finish the song.
I don’t answer.
But I listen.
And I wonder how long it’ll keep asking.
Before it stops asking.
And starts coming to find me.
Last One to Leave
I never thought the last-one-out rule was anything more than busywork.
Every teacher mentioned it at some point. Casual. Like reminding us to close windows when it rained. “Whoever’s last through the doors flips the main hallway lights off. Simple.” No one argued. No one asked why there wasn’t a timer or motion sensor or just let the custodians handle it. We just did it. Passed the responsibility like a hot potato. First one out got to leave the lights on. Last one got stuck with the switch.
Most days it wasn’t me.
I usually bolted right after the final bell. Caught the 3:42 bus. Home by 4:10. But last Friday detention hit. Forgot to hand in a chem lab report. Mr. Patel kept me back thirty minutes. Made me rewrite the whole thing by hand. By the time I finished, the school felt different. Quieter. Echoes sharper. Hallways empty except for the low buzz of the vending machines down by the gym.
I grabbed my bag. Hoodie zipped. Walked the main corridor toward the front doors. Lights already dimmed in most sections—someone else had done their part earlier. I flipped switches as I went. Click. Click. Sections going dark behind me. Footsteps loud in the sudden quiet.
Last switch. The one by the trophy case near the entrance.
I hit it.
Everything went black.
Except one light.
Far end of the corridor. The stretch past the office, near the double doors to the old auditorium nobody uses anymore. One fluorescent tube stayed on. Steady white glow. Not flickering. Just… on.
Under it stood someone.
Same height as me. Same build. Hood up. Backpack slung over one shoulder the way I always carry it. Same black Nikes with the white swoosh starting to peel. Same faded grey hoodie I’d worn every day that week because the zipper was broken and I was too lazy to fix it.
They didn’t move.
Just stood there.
Staring.
I couldn’t see the face—hood shadowed it—but I felt the eyes. Locked on me. Not blinking. Not shifting. Just watching.
My stomach dropped.
I turned. Fast. Pushed through the front doors. Didn’t look back. Ran across the parking lot. Bus already gone. Had to walk the two miles home. Kept glancing over my shoulder the whole way. Streetlights. Passing cars. Nothing following. But my skin crawled the entire time.
Got home. Mum asked why I was late. I mumbled something about detention. Went straight to my room. Locked the door. Sat on the bed staring at my hoodie. Still wearing it. Zipper still broken. Sleeves still frayed at the cuffs. Same one.
Next morning—Saturday—I slept in. Woke up around ten. Mum already at work. House quiet. I checked my phone. Group chat blowing up.
Sarah: “You see the lost & found post?”
Lucas: “Tech what the hell”
Priya: “dude that’s your hoodie”
I opened the school’s parent portal app. They post lost property photos there sometimes. There it was. Uploaded at 7:14 a.m. by the weekend office admin.
Grey hoodie. Black zipper pull. Frayed cuffs. Exact same tear on the left sleeve where I caught it on a locker last month.
Caption: “Found in main corridor near front doors. Please claim by Monday.”
I stared at the photo.
Then looked down at myself.
Still wearing the hoodie.
Same tear. Same fray. Same everything.
I pulled it off fast. Threw it on the floor like it burned me. Stood there in my T-shirt breathing hard.
It wasn’t possible.
I’d left wearing it. Walked home in it. Slept in it. Woke up in it.
But there it was. Hung on the lost & found hook. Photographed at 7:14.
I didn’t go back to school that weekend.
Monday I had to.
First bell. Corridor packed. I walked straight to the lost & found box outside the office. Hoodie still there. Hung on the same hook. Tag attached. “Unclaimed.”
I reached for it.
Hand shaking.
Pulled it down.
Same size. Same weight. Same smell—faint deodorant and cafeteria fries.
I unzipped my bag. Took out the one I’d brought from home. Held them side by side.
Identical.
Down to the loose thread on the drawstring.
I felt eyes on me.
Turned.
Far end of the corridor.
The fluorescent light from Friday.
Still on.
In broad daylight. All the others off or dimmed for energy saving. That one burned bright.
Under it—no one.
Just empty space.
But I swear the air shimmered. Like heat off pavement. For half a second I saw the shape again. Hood up. Backpack. Staring.
Gone when I blinked.
I shoved both hoodies in my bag. Didn’t care if they matched. Didn’t care if it made sense. Walked to class fast. Sat in the back. Kept my head down.
All day I felt it.
Like someone walking a step behind me.
Like someone wearing my clothes.
Like someone waiting for me to be last out again.
After final bell I didn’t wait.
I ran for the doors. Pushed past people. Got outside before the crowd. Bus already there. Climbed on. Sat in the back. Watched the school shrink in the rear window.
That light was still on.
Visible even from the street.
One bright rectangle in a dark building.
I haven’t been last out since.
I make sure I’m not.
I leave early. Skip study hall. Fake a stomach ache if I have to. Anything to not be the one flipping that final switch.
But sometimes I catch myself wondering.
Who—or what—was wearing my hoodie that night.
Why it left the other one behind.
And why the light’s still on.
Every morning when I walk past the front doors on my way in, I glance down the corridor.
It’s always there.
One tube glowing.
Waiting.
For the next last person.
For the next one to flip the switch.
For the next one to see themselves standing under it.
Staring back.
I don’t know what happens if you don’t run.
If you stand there.
If you wave.
Or speak.
Or try to walk toward it.
I don’t want to find out.
But I know one thing.
The rule isn’t about saving electricity.
It’s about making sure someone leaves.
And making sure something stays.
Wearing your clothes.
Waiting under the light.
Until the next Friday.
When someone else is last.
And the switch clicks.
And the corridor goes black.
Except for one.
How to Make Up Your Own Scary Stories?
Yo, making up your own scary story is honestly the best part—once you nail the basics, you can freak your friends out with something that feels like it actually happened right here in your school.
Start with real places
Pick spots everybody knows and kinda avoids anyway. The gym when it’s empty after school, that weird cafeteria corner nobody sits in, or the old classroom at the end of the hall that’s always locked. Say “it started in our actual gym last Friday night” and boom—everyone’s picturing it. Way creepier than some made-up haunted mansion.
Check out how dead and eerie an empty school gym looks at night—total prime spot for your story:
And this abandoned classroom vibe? Imagine telling your tale right in a room like this:
Add a mysterious character
Throw in someone off. That substitute who never talks much, the kid who transferred out last year but people swear they’ve seen walking around, or the janitor who’s always mopping at weird times. Make ’em quiet, stare too long, or just feel… wrong. That’s what gets under people’s skin.
Something like this shadowy figure in a dark hallway? Perfect for your creepy character lurking:
Drop a solid twist ending
Don’t let it fizzle out. Hit ’em with something they didn’t see coming—like the “missing” kid shows up in the reflection behind you, or the weird message scratched into the desk has your name on it, or the shadow that’s been following… is standing right there now. Leave it hanging so they’re like “wait, seriously?” and nobody wants to be the first to leave the group.
Your friends’ faces when you land the twist—priceless, shocked reactions all around:
Haunted house’s hidden camera makes terror look hilarious …
Tell it in first person
This is the cheat code. Say “this happened to me last week after practice” or “my buddy was in the bathroom and…” instead of “once upon a time.” It makes it feel personal, like it could happen to any of you. Even if it’s 100% made up, they’ll believe it because it’s “you” telling it.
Get your crew huddled like this, lights low, everyone on edge—that’s the perfect setup:
Tales by the Firelight
That’s all you need, bro. Grab a real spot from your school, add a weird person, build it slow, then smack ’em with the twist. Say it like it just happened to you. Practice once so you don’t laugh midway, and you’ll have ’em jumping and begging for another one.
Now go cook up something nasty. What’s the creepiest corner in your school? Start there. 😈
When NOT to Tell a Scary Story
Yo, quick heads-up—scary stories are awesome, but timing is everything. Drop one at the wrong moment and you’ll just end up with annoyed or freaked-out friends. Here’s when to straight-up hold off:
Right before a big test
Come on, man. Your friend’s already panicking about failing history or whatever. The last thing they need is their brain replaying “the locker ghost is coming for you” while they’re trying to remember dates and formulas. Let ‘em keep their head in the game. Save the creeps for after the test when everyone’s decompressed.
When someone’s just not into it
Not everybody’s down for scares. Some people get legit anxious, have bad dreams, or just hate the feeling of being creeped out. If your buddy’s the type who covers their eyes during horror movie trailers, don’t push it. Be cool—ask first, or switch to something funny instead. No one wants to be the reason someone’s up all night.
In pitch-black darkness
Flashlight-under-the-chin is classic for a reason, but full-on total darkness? Nah. That’s how you turn a chill hangout into chaos. One good jump-scare in the dark and someone’s screaming, knocking stuff over, or bolting for the door. Keep a little light on unless you’re ready for pure panic mode.
Bottom line: keep it fun for everyone. Read the vibe, check in with your people, and know when to chill. You’ll get way more laughs and “tell another one!” if you don’t scare the crap out of someone who’s not in the mood.
Conclusion
Yo, wrapping this up—scary stories at school are straight-up gold. They turn a boring lunch period or a dead hallway wait into something electric. Whether you’re retelling that old bathroom ghost legend, making up some fresh nightmare about your own school, or passing down whatever weird thing “happened” in the gym last year, it’s all about the vibe.
Get the setting right: lights low, voices quiet, a little flashlight glow if you’re feeling it. Throw in a whisper that makes everyone lean in, a random slam or scratch at the perfect moment, or some tiny detail that hits too close to home—like how that one locker always creaks at night. Boom. Chills for days.
But real talk: the best ones? They don’t just end when the story does. You walk out of there laughing, but later you’re in an empty hallway and suddenly every little sound is sus. That cold spot in the classroom? The shadow that wasn’t there a second ago? Yeah… those are the ones that follow you home.
So next time you’re with your crew, kill the lights, huddle up, and see who cracks first. Drop your best one, watch the jumps, the screams, the “nah bro I’m out.” Just… maybe don’t walk home alone after. Keep an eye on those corners. You never know what’s listening.
Your turn—what’s the one story from your school that still messes with you? Spill it.
