The Shadow of Miss Grimsley
The air in Room 10 was always thick, not with dust, but with fear. Miss Grimsley was our fifth-grade teacher, and she was, without a doubt, the strictest person any of us had ever met. She didn't just demand silence; she seemed to suck the sound right out of the room.
Her voice was low and scratchy, like dry leaves dragging across concrete. "Silence," she would hiss, and even the clock seemed to tick quieter.
But it wasn't just the strict rules about neat handwriting and perfect attendance that made us shiver. It was the threats.
Leo, who sat in the front row, once forgot his homework. Miss Grimsley didn't just give him a detention slip. She leaned over his desk, her shadow swallowing him whole.
"Leo," she whispered, her eyes narrowed behind her thick glasses. "You know what happens to children who forget their duties, don't you?"
Leo shook his head, his eyes wide.
"Oh, you will learn," she continued, her voice dropping to a chilling murmur. "I have ways of making sure you never forget again. Ways that involve... things that go bump in the night, right outside your window. They listen for the names of naughty children."
She didn't shout. She didn't even raise her hand. But the way she said it, the cold, dead seriousness in her eyes, made the threat feel real. It felt like she wasn't just a teacher; she was a gatekeeper to something dark and waiting.
That night, Leo couldn't sleep. Every rustle of leaves outside sounded like a footstep. Every shadow looked like a long, bony finger reaching for him. We all knew Miss Grimsley wasn't just talking about detention. She was talking about something much, much worse.