Marc sat at his desk, drumming his fingers restlessly on the table. His concentration dwindled with every minute the teacher spent at the front of the class, writing boring equations on the board. The last ten minutes of the lesson dragged on indefinitely. Some of his classmates whispered next to him, and although he tried to ignore the conversations, he couldn't ignore one name: "Machete Man."
Jonas, known for his exaggerated stories, had come up with something again. "There's this serial killer who supposedly roams the school at night," Jonas whispered, his eyes wide as he told his story. "They say he carries a huge machete and sneaks through the hallways. No one knows who he is, but two students allegedly disappeared after being here one evening."
"Nonsense," Sarah replied from beside him. "You're just talking nonsense."
"You're saying that now, but wait," Jonas replied with a conspiratorial grin. "The teachers aren't telling, of course, but I heard someone found traces of blood on the ground floor."
Marc rolled his eyes. Jonas' stories were becoming more and more absurd, and yet a part of him seemed fascinated. They were the kind of tales you loved as a child, even though you knew they were made up. Still, as Marc looked at the large clock in the room and the second hand moved lazily, an uneasy feeling crept over him.
The teacher's voice became increasingly monotonous. He was talking about formulas, but Marc had long since stopped listening. His eyelids grew heavy, and he leaned back in his chair as the familiar ambient sounds slowly faded into the background. It wasn't long before he nodded off.
***
Marc suddenly jumped up. The atmosphere around him had changed drastically. He was still sitting in his seat, but the bright light of the classroom had been replaced by a dim twilight. Outside, it had obviously fallen into night. The room was silent, and a deep sense of apprehension settled in his chest.
His first impulse was to grab his phone to check the time. But the screen remained dark. "Battery empty... of course," he muttered, annoyed, and put it back in his pocket. He stood up and looked around. The room was empty. Where had the others gone? Had they left him here alone?
Marc walked to the door and opened it carefully. The hallway before him was dark and eerily quiet. The dim light from the flickering neon tubes on the ceiling cast long shadows, and the walls seemed more ominous than usual. He felt his stomach clench as he peered deeper into the darkness.
Then he heard it. A faint scratching. The sound was barely audible, but it made his blood run cold. He stood frozen, listening. It sounded like something heavy was being dragged across the floor—the dragging was ominous, slow, and threatening.
His mind raced. Was that Jonas's machete man? This was ridiculous. There had to be a logical reason for the noise. Maybe it was the janitor or a gust of wind moving something. But as the scratching grew louder and closer, all thought of rational explanations vanished.
Marc walked faster. His footsteps echoed through the empty hallways, but he couldn't stop the feeling that something—or someone—was following him. With each step, the scratching grew louder, and his heart rate increased until he felt like it would burst out of his chest.
He turned a corner and froze. At the end of the corridor, in the shadows, stood a figure. The man was tall and menacing, and in his hand he held a massive machete, gleaming menacingly in the dim light. Marc gasped, unable to move. The man didn't seem to have noticed him yet, but that didn't change the panic rising within Marc.
Without a second thought, he turned and ran. His feet drummed on the cold tile floor, and his breathing was labored as he tried to escape the sinister presence. The sound of the machete dragging across the floor haunted him, and he felt the man getting closer and closer.
Marc ran through the dark hallways that suddenly seemed foreign to him. The school he had attended for years now felt like a labyrinth from which there was no escape. Finally, he reached the classroom he had come from and plunged inside. He slammed the door and locked it as best he could.
His breath was gasping, and his body trembled with fear. He knew he wasn't safe. The man would come. It was only a matter of time.
He looked around frantically. The classroom now seemed like a trap. His eyes flickered over the familiar objects until they fell on the large bookshelf against the back wall. It was old and heavy, and Marc wondered if there might be a secret exit there. With trembling hands, he grabbed the shelf and began to push it aside.
To his surprise, he discovered a door behind it. "That's unbelievable," he whispered. He had never seen that door before. It was set into the wall, well hidden behind the heavy books and the dusty shelf. Without thinking twice, Marc opened the door and stepped into a small room.
The room was tiny, barely larger than a storage closet. A bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling, flickering dimly. It smelled musty, as if the place hadn't been walked on in years. The walls were covered with old newspapers, some of which were yellowed and torn. In one corner stood dusty pieces of furniture—a broken chair, a table with a dented surface, and in the middle of the room lay what looked like a small sack.
Marc approached the bag hesitantly. His heart pounded in his chest, and he felt as if he were about to suffocate. As he approached, he noticed that the bag was half-open. With trembling hands, he lifted the fabric and discovered underneath... old clothes, rusted tools, and—what almost made him scream—a severed doll's head.
Frightened, Marc stepped back. He felt his throat tighten. Who had used this room? Was this the murderer's hideout? His head spun, and he felt dizzy. But he didn't have time to think, because the scratching was back—and this time right behind him.
With a jerk, he turned around. In the doorway stood the man with the machete, his face still hidden in shadow, but the machete gleaming ominously in the dim light. Marc felt his knees buckle. There was no way out.
The man raised the machete, ready to strike. Marc screamed as the blade rushed toward him. And then...
With a gasp, Marc jumped up. He was back in his classroom, surrounded by his classmates. The teacher stood at the blackboard and spoke as if nothing had happened. It had only been a dream. A horrific, realistic nightmare.
Marc was panting heavily, his heart racing, and his body covered in cold sweat. He looked around, still panicking, and saw the familiar classroom, which now seemed like a safe place. But the dream... It felt so real.
He slowly stood up, his legs trembling beneath him. Without saying a word, he walked to the back wall of the classroom, where the large bookshelf stood. His classmates watched him in amazement, and the teacher interrupted his explanation. "Marc, what are you doing?"
Marc didn't answer. He grabbed the shelf and began to push it aside. To his horror, he discovered that the door from his dream actually existed. Marc was standing in front of the secret door he had seen in his dream. The teacher and his classmates watched curiously as Marc discovered the room beyond. It looked just like it had in his nightmare, but the room was empty—no threats, no clues to the murderer. When Marc found another door, the atmosphere seemed to thicken, but no one could open it. The feeling that something remained hidden left Marc uneasy. When the teacher and students left the room, Marc was left alone, the question of what was really behind the door unanswered.