The Empty Desk

The Empty Desk

The overhead lights hum, flickering slightly, casting long, stretched shadows across the empty classroom. Too bright. Too harsh. Mr. Taylor exhales, pressing his palms into his temples. It’s late—later than he meant to stay. The pile of ungraded essays in front of him hasn’t gotten any smaller, and the words on the page keep shifting out of focus.

He rubs his eyes. Focus. Just finish grading.

The classroom is quiet, except for the soft scratching of his pen against paper. A distant creak echoes from the hallway—probably the janitor making his rounds. He tells himself that, but something about it feels off.

Another scratch—louder this time.

He looks up.

The desk at the back of the room is pulled out slightly.

Mr. Taylor frowns. That desk. Had it been like that before? He doesn’t think so. The janitor wouldn’t have come in. No one else was here.

He stares at the desk for a moment, then shakes his head and looks back at the paper in front of him.

He marks a red line through a sentence. Unclear thesis. Needs revision.

Another sound—this time, a faint whisper.

"Mr. Taylor?"

His breath catches. He looks up again, heart thudding against his ribs.

The desk is still pulled out. Empty.

He scans the room. The door is closed. No one is there.

Slowly, he pushes back his chair and stands. The floor creaks under his weight as he steps toward the desk. His fingers twitch at his sides—an old nervous habit. He doesn’t like things being out of place.

He grips the edge of the desk and pushes it back into alignment with the others. His hand lingers on the wood. For a moment, he swears it feels warm.

A sharp bang echoes from the hallway.

He whirls around, his pulse surging.

Nothing. Just the empty corridor stretching too far under flickering fluorescent lights.

He exhales sharply and forces a chuckle. Get a grip. You’re exhausted.

Back at his desk, he sits down and flips through the stack of papers, looking for where he left off. He freezes.

The name at the top of the page reads: Jacob Hall.

His chest tightens. His mouth goes dry.

Jacob isn’t in his class anymore.

Jacob hasn’t been in his class for a year.

A cold sensation spreads through him, creeping up his spine like fingers trailing against his skin. Slowly, he looks toward the back of the room.

The desk is pulled out again.

A notebook sits open on top of it.

It wasn’t there before.

A whisper—closer this time.

"You knew, didn’t you?"

Mr. Taylor’s breath hitches. His hands clench into fists beneath the desk.

"You knew, didn’t you?"

The whisper coils around him, threading through his thoughts, soft and insistent.

He swallows hard and turns back to the paper. He tells himself he won’t look. If you don’t look, it’s not real.

But his gaze drifts anyway.

The notebook on the back desk is still open, its pages blank—except for the one line scrawled across the top in smudged black ink:

You should have seen it.

A sharp ringing fills his ears. He can’t breathe.

His hand reaches forward on its own, trembling fingers brushing the paper. The ink is fresh. Wet. The scent of it stings his nose.

"Mr. Taylor?"

He spins in his chair, his pulse hammering in his throat.

Nothing.

The lights overhead flicker. The air feels too thick, pressing against his skin.

He needs to leave. Now.

His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. His legs feel unsteady, like he’s forgotten how to move. He takes a step toward the door.

But then—

A quiet rustling.

His eyes snap back to the desk.

The notebook is closed now.

He didn’t touch it.

The desk is perfectly aligned with the others.

His stomach lurches. The room feels wrong, like he’s stepped into a scene that has already played out, over and over, a moment looping back on itself.

He turns toward the door, gripping the handle with clammy fingers. It twists—smoothly, too easily—and opens into the darkened hallway.

Silence stretches around him.

The school is empty. Of course it is.

He steps out, shutting the door behind him.

It clicks softly into place.

And behind it, in the quiet classroom, the desk at the back of the room slides out again.

Waiting.