“Whispers After the Final Bell: 1 Bittersweet Farewell That Turned Into a Nightmare”

The Final Bell

It was June 10, 2017 — the last day of school at Greenwood Secondary. The air buzzed with adolescent excitement. Seniors were running through the halls, spraying silly string, tossing paper planes, and hugging goodbye as they prepared to leave behind a chapter of their lives.

Aarav Saxena, however, stood quietly beside his locker. He wasn’t popular, but he wasn’t an outcast either. He existed in the in-between — visible to teachers, forgettable to classmates. His plan for the day was simple: collect his grade card, return his library books, and leave without much fuss.

But as he zipped up his bag, a folded note slid out from his locker. It was old — yellowing at the edges and written in red ink that had begun to bleed.

“You forgot something. Detention. Room 6B. 3:30 PM. – Mr. Bhardwaj.”

Aarav frowned. Mr. Bhardwaj, the Vice Principal, had retired last year. Room 6B hadn’t been used since the wing was sealed for “renovation” after a gas leak incident two years ago.

Still, curiosity had a strange way of grabbing hold. Aarav decided to investigate.

After school ended and the corridors emptied, Aarav made his way to the old wing.

The hallway was cold — unnaturally so. The “Under Construction” sign hung lopsided, coated in thick dust. A sheet of plywood covered the entrance, but it had been pried loose.

He squeezed through the gap.

The lights were dead. Only the fading daylight slipping through cracked windows offered visibility. The air was musty, filled with the scent of mildew, old textbooks, and something faintly metallic — like rust… or dried blood.

He found it: Room 6B. The door was oddly pristine compared to its surroundings. The nameplate still shimmered faintly, untouched by time. He hesitated, then pushed it open.

The room was set up like any other classroom — dusty desks, a green chalkboard, and sunlight casting fractured shadows across the tiled floor.

But then, he noticed the chalkboard.

Names were scribbled on it. Not in chalk, but etched — scratched deeply into the slate.

Anaya Desai. Veer Patel. Jiya Verma. And… Aarav Saxena.

His breath caught. He had never met any of those people. Not in any class. Not in any school memory.

As he stared at the names, a girl’s voice echoed behind him:
“You came back.”

He spun around.

A girl stood near the door, wearing a Greenwood school uniform — the old version that had been discontinued years ago.

She looked sixteen, maybe seventeen, but there was something wrong about her. Her eyes were distant, like someone watching a memory instead of a moment. Her feet didn’t quite touch the ground.

“I waited,” she whispered, “for years.”

Aarav stumbled backward. “Who are you?”

She didn’t answer. She walked to one of the desks, placed her palms flat against it, and said, “They locked us in here. The gas… wasn’t a leak.”

Before he could respond, the walls began to change. Cracks filled with black moss. Desks warped and bent. Blood began to drip from the corners of the ceiling. The chalkboard bled red ink where the names were scratched.

The girl looked up, eyes glowing faintly.

“You’re the last name now.”

Aarav tried the door — it wouldn’t budge.

Panicked, he pounded on it, screamed, kicked.

Nothing.

When he turned back, the girl was gone, but the classroom was no longer the same. The walls were clean again. The desks were straight. A teacher stood at the front — Mr. Bhardwaj.

But not as he remembered him.

The man’s skin was grey. His eyes were all white. He spoke in a hollow voice:
“Welcome back, students. Today’s lesson: what happens when you forget the forgotten.”

More students filtered in through the walls. Their eyes were blank. Their mouths stitched shut. They took their seats, books in hand.

Aarav was forced into a chair. His limbs moved against his will.

The lesson began.

Every day was the same.

Wake up in Room 6B. Sit through a lesson from the undead Mr. Bhardwaj. Repeat pages from books written in nonsense. Eat nothing. Sleep never.

Time didn’t exist there. Clocks ticked backward. Calendars read “Year: Null.” The only break in monotony was the voice of the girl — her name was Anaya. She was the first.

“We all died here. But no one remembers.”

“Why me?” Aarav asked, defeated.

“Because you read the note. Because you were curious. And now, you belong to the room.”

But Aarav wasn’t ready to surrender. Day after day, he watched. He listened. He waited.

He learned that at exactly 3:45 PM, the wall near the last desk shimmered faintly — a glitch in the nightmare. Perhaps a portal.

He needed to reach it.

With Anaya’s help, he created a distraction during the lesson — setting a book on fire using a shard of glass and sunlight. The fire was more real than the room itself. The undead screamed. Walls cracked.

Aarav ran.

He burst through the shimmering wall and collapsed into the real world.

It was nighttime.

The old wing was on fire. He stumbled out just in time to be seen by security guards. His parents were called. The school dismissed it as a prank gone wrong.

Room 6B was sealed off permanently the next morning.

Years passed. Aarav moved on — or tried to. He studied architecture, moved to a new city, got a job.

But every year on June 10, at exactly 3:45 PM, he sees her — Anaya — standing outside whatever building he’s in.

Sometimes she smiles. Sometimes she cries.

And sometimes… she mouths, “You left me there.”