My heart was pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears—like angry drums in some ritual I never signed up for. The hallway lights were still sputtering, their pale glow barely cutting through the gathering shadows. I shivered, half-crouching beside a row of lockers, my phone still dead, my breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.
I tried to steady myself, telling my brain to stop inventing monsters. It was probably just a teacher doing inventory, or the janitor messing with the breaker box. Anyone—but of course, the silence made me sure that no one was there. I edged forward, each step sounding like thunder.
Then I heard it—a faint click. The type of click that comes from the far end of the hallway, like someone stepping onto the tile floor. My first reaction was pure, unadulterated relief. Relief that I wasn't alone. Relief that whatever was wrong with the lights, there was at least another person here. Because being alone in a half-lit school was a nightmare; having company meant I wasn't trapped alone.
"Hello?" I called, voice shaky. "Is someone there?"
I waited. The click-click sound echoed again, creeping closer. My pulse slammed against my ribs. I took a step forward, peering into the gloom. A figure appeared—a woman, tall and impossibly slender, standing by the locker row near the exit. She was so… out of place. The emergency lights haloed her like some specter.
At first, I thought she might be one of the older kids, maybe a new student who'd overslept and gotten locked in. She was wearing a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over her forehead, a long coat that nearly brushed the floor, and white gloves that made her fingers look like ivory claws. Her face was hidden; I couldn't see her eyes, her mouth, anything. But she was there.
"Thank God," I whispered, stepping forward. "I thought I—I was alone."
She didn't move. She didn't speak. She just stood there, silent as the grave. All I could hear was the hum of the emergency lights and the pounding of my own heart.
"Are you okay?" I stammered, taking another tentative step. The florescent echoes of my shoes on the tile floor were deafening in the hush.
Still nothing. But the moment I got closer, the air around me changed. It grew colder, like winter had decided to set up a camp inside the school. My breath fogged in front of me. I felt as though I'd crossed some invisible threshold.
My relief curdled into something darker. Fear. The rational part of my brain shouted, This is not normal. This is not human.
Her hat tilted, as if she were listening to me. She took a slow step forward—no, scratch that—a step that somehow felt like the movement of eight feet hitting the ground in unison. That's when it hit me: she was impossibly tall. Even with the emergency lights low, I could see the hem of her coat hovering at least two feet above my head.
I stumbled backward, heart seizing. I'd read about this. My podcasts—Marisol's obsession with creepy stories—hadrumbled on about a Japanese urban legend: Hachishakusama, the Eight Feet Tall lady. They whispered her name as a ghost story, a bedtime tale, something to send shivers down your spine.
But this—this wasn't a story. That wide-brimmed hat, the long coat, the white gloves, the absurd height… it was all there. The legend said she abducted children: she'd appear suddenly, silent, stalking her prey with that unnerving, elongated stride. She never spoke. She never blinked. She just came, an avenging spirit hungry for fear.
"She's—" I gasped under my breath. But even as I said it, a part of me refused to believe. Urban legends were, by definition, not real. They were stories people told to feel their hearts race.
But look at me now. Eye to eye with eight feet of silent terror.
She didn't say a word. Didn't even cock her head. I swallowed hard, my voice cracking. "Are… are you okay? Do you need help?"
The emergency lights flickered again, and I saw something glint in the darkness beneath her hat. A pale, moonlit face—oval and featureless, like a waxen mask. No eyes, just dark hollows. An unnaturally small mouth, lipless, as if carved out of porcelain. I wanted to look away, but my feet were glued to the tile.
I took a step back, knuckles white on the lockers behind me. "I—I have to… I have to call someone." My hand fumbled for my phone in my pocket. Dead. Of course.
"This can't be happening," I muttered, pressing both hands to my ears as if to shut out the sound of my own voice. My mind raced: run, hide, scream—what did you do in a horror movie? Everything always went wrong.
And I realized, weakly, that I probably had three options:
Make a break for it down the hall and hope she didn't move in that same silent, gliding way.
Find a room, lock the door, barricade myself until someone came.
Pray—and I mean actual prayer—because rational thought was gone.
Instinct grabbed me by the collar. I bolted. The click-click of her steps behind me was too rhythmic, too precise, a metronome for my rising panic.
I ran—not looking back, trying to navigate blindly down the corridor. My shoes squeaked on the tile. I hugged the lockers with lungs on fire, searching doors, any door.
I found one—a plain wooden door with a little sign: Restrooms. Salvation.
I slung the door open and dashed inside. The corridor slid behind me. I locked the door with a frantic twist and leaned against it, gasping. My chest felt like it would explode.
"Mercy," I choked. "Anyone…"
I turned. The restroom was empty, lit by a single flickering fluorescent. I rushed to the nearest stall, yanked open the door, and bolted inside. I sat on the toilet lid, panting. My back against the cold metal of the stall wall felt almost comforting in its hardness.
I pressed my ear to the door. Footsteps. She was outside. Soft, purposeful. No echo, no clatter. Just… steps.
I fumbled with the lock—locked. Good. I pulled my knees to my chest. My hands trembled so violently I couldn't grip the waistband of my jeans.
With trembling fingers, I reached for my phone again. Nothing. God, nothing. I was completely dead in the water.
"Please go away," I whispered. "Please…" My voice cracked, thick with tears I refused to shed.
I closed my eyes, imagining daylight, imagining Mom's pancakes, imagining anything that wasn't this nightmare. But then I remembered the old stories: if you recognized her, she'd follow you forever. That she could bend dimensions, appear anywhere. That calling her name was how you invited her in.
But I did it anyway. I'd tried to help. I'd called "Are you okay?" like any decent human would. How stupid could I be? Trying to be polite to a monster.
My breathing slowed,
The footsteps stopped outside the stall.
A slow, deliberate silence.
I dared to breathe. It was colder in here than when she was stalking the hallway. The stall walls felt like paper between me and the void.