I Quit Teaching Because Of This Terrifying Incident. I’ve Never Told Anyone About It Until Now.

“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Waller. I don’t teach Amy.”

They looked down at their itinerary, confused.

Then, Mrs. Waller called out to someone behind me. “Amy, isn’t this your teacher?”

I turned towards their daughter, and that’s when my temples started to pound. My back pressed up against my chair as I suppressed everything within me that wanted to flee. I strained every muscle in my face to force a smile. And I could feel my breaths coming in heavy waves through my nostrils.

The girl standing before me, Amy, was not the girl I had seen in the hallway. This Amy looked nothing like her sister. This girl was tall, with smaller eyes. And though her hair was black, it wasn’t straight, but wavy.

“No,” she said, before scanning the gym for her teacher. “There she is over there.”

Her parents smiled and apologized for disturbing me, and then moved on.

I would, too, by year’s end — from the school, that is. There were other disturbing incidents that year that distracted me too much from my teaching. I loved that school and the people there, but by the end of the year, I was no longer comfortable in my own room. I don’t believe in the paranormal. Still don’t. I think.

But what was later found in the basement forced too many questions.

A bunch of us teachers went out to a pub a few blocks away for drinks immediately after the parent-teacher conference. It was a longstanding tradition at this school for the principal to buy the first round. She lifted her glass and toasted in her slight Scottish lilt, “To you all, thank you for displaying both passion and restraint in equal measure.”

Later that evening, with a few beers in me, I cornered the principal by the pool table and tried to finesse some information from her. I asked how Amy’s transition into high school was going.

“You don’t teach her, do you?” she asked.

I told her I didn’t but was concerned given the recent discovery in the basement.

“Ah, that,” she said. “Don’t you worry about her. Her grade counsellor is ready if any red flags are raised.”

I was about to walk away when I thought of another question.

“Lorna, does Amy have any other siblings?”

“None,” she said. She put her arm around my shoulder and gave it a strong squeeze. “Don’t let these stories get inside your head. I’ve been hearing them for years. Christ, just let the dead be dead and be done with it, I say. Go get another beer on my tab.”

Near midnight, I found myself walking out of the bar, still bothered by the experience of seeing Amy — the real Amy. I was standing at a corner, thinking about hailing a cab, when I suddenly got the urge to go back to the school. It was only a 10 minute walk. It would help clear my head. The moon was out so it would partly light my way through the dark neighbourhood.

I know that in hindsight it sounds ridiculous, like one of those scenes in horror movies where you think, “Why the hell is he going back there? This is so fake!” I know how stupid this all sounds as I type this. Perhaps it was the beer amping up any youthful foolhardiness I had left in my bones, fueling my inner need for answers to questions spinning in my head. Or maybe I had a flair for the dramatic moment, the kind that leads some men to stand under balconies to unburden their hearts.

Regardless of the reason, I found myself standing on the grass under my classroom window, unburdening my heart of nothing at all. On the contrary, it was heavy with foreboding, as if a thick fog had settled in its core. I stood by the tree that provided shade to my room on some late autumn afternoons. The moon cast long shadows across the school lawn and a slight breeze was noticeable now that I had stopped walking. The tree squeaked under its own weight, and I could hear the branches tapping against one another.