16 Sep Say My Name

The fluorescent lights hummed with their own strange cadence, a nervous flicker dancing above the library doors. The building always felt different once the last bell rang, but tonight it felt worse. The classrooms had gone dark, the lockers stretched like empty shells, and the faint smell of dust and wax polish clung to the corridors.

Albert Yates paused in the middle of the hallway, his backpack hanging loose off one shoulder. He glanced back at the others. Maya Torres was hunched against a locker, shivering, tugging at the zipper of her hoodie. Lena Cho kept her distance from the group, hugging her binder to her chest, her expression unreadable. Jordan Pike, meanwhile, twirled a pencil between his fingers like he didn’t notice the change at all. If anything, Jordan seemed to enjoy it—the hush of an empty school, the stage set for him to say something stupid.

“You hear that?” Albert asked, his voice low.

“Hear what?” Jordan grinned. “The sound of you getting creeped out? That, I hear.”

But Lena had heard it, too. Her head snapped toward the far end of the corridor, where the stairwell sloped down into shadow. A sound had rolled through, not like footsteps or chatter, but a deep rumble that resonated through the plaster and tile. It came again, swelling from the empty stairwell like someone speaking through the bones of the building itself. They were words, maybe, but not clear enough to understand.

Jordan cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello?”

“Don’t,” Lena said, her voice cracking. Her grip on the binder tightened. “Don’t answer it.”

Albert frowned. “What do you mean, don’t answer? What even was that?”

Before she could respond, a mop bucket squeaked across the linoleum, and the janitor appeared from around the corner, the hunched figure of Mr. Harlan Briggs. His work shirt was faded almost to gray, and his beard looked like wire coated in ash. His eyes, though, were sharp and watchful, even as he leaned heavily on the mop handle.

“You kids shouldn’t be here this late,” he muttered, more to himself than to them. “And if you’re smart, you won’t answer him.”

Maya straightened. “Him? You mean… there is somebody here?”

Briggs stopped rolling the bucket. The faint light glared against the wet tiles, spreading in slick patterns at his feet. He looked up slowly, his expression hardening.

“There’s nobody left here,” he said. “Not anymore. That’s just the echo of someone who should’ve stayed gone.”

The silence stretched after his words. Even Jordan, smirking a moment earlier, faltered.

Briggs shifted the mop to his other hand and gave a sharp shake of his head. “Best you can do is keep walking. Don’t talk back. Don’t even whisper. Once he knows you’re listening, he doesn’t let go.”

He left them with that, the mop swishing as he vanished down the adjoining corridor, leaving the four students staring into the stairwell shadows, each one hearing the lingering roll of that unseen voice.

The four of them didn’t speak at first, the janitor’s warning hanging heavily over them. Albert glanced at Maya, hoping she’d make a joke to cut through the tension, but her lips were pressed into a line. Jordan gave a nervous laugh that didn’t sound like his usual self.

“Guy’s been sniffing too many cleaning chemicals,” he said nervously. “Seriously, an echo? What’s that even mean?”

“It means shut up,” Lena muttered.

They walked toward the main lobby, the sound of their sneakers scuffing against the waxed linoleum. The trophy cases lined either side of the hall, dust gathering on plaques that nobody had read in years. Albert slowed as one photograph caught his eye—an old yearbook spread tucked behind yellowed newspaper clippings.

The face in the photo was pale and angular, with eyes that seemed both tired and mocking. Marcus Vey, Junior Varsity Wrestling, 1987.

Albert tapped the glass. “This him?”

Lena shifted closer, her expression tight. “Yeah. That’s the one. Expelled for violent incidents and threats toward faculty.”

Jordan leaned in, squinting. “He doesn’t look so scary. More like a wannabe rock star who failed English.”

“You don’t know the stories.” Lena’s eyes darted toward the stairwell. “They said he swore he’d come back, that he’d get even. Then he just… disappeared. People claimed he made a deal with the devil, down by the boilers. My brother told me—”

Maya cut her off with a sharp gesture. “Nope! Don’t even start. That janitor was already cryptic enough. We don’t need ghost stories on top of it.”

Jordan grinned and cupped his hands again, calling into the open corridor: “Hey, Marcus! You down here, buddy?”

The rumble came back almost instantly, rolling out of the darkness like an answer. This time, the syllables shaped themselves more clearly—two thick beats that dragged across the air.

“Jooooor-daaaaan.”

Jordan’s smile twitched, but he didn’t back down. “Oh, come on. That’s just somebody messing with us. Has to be.”

Maya tugged at Albert’s sleeve. “I’m done. We’re leaving. Now.”

Albert hesitated, staring through the glass at Marcus Vey’s picture, the frozen smirk etched across his features. The photo seemed alive in a way none of the others did, as though the boy pictured knew he’d be remembered.

Behind them, the voice called to them again, lower this time.

“Saaaay my naaaaame.”

The four of them froze in place, the air around them quivering as though the building itself had spoken. Jordan’s smirk had drained away.

Albert’s pulse raced, though he forced himself to keep moving, guiding Maya and Lena down the hall. Jordan followed reluctantly, tossing nervous glances over his shoulder.

They rounded a corner and nearly collided with Mr. Briggs. The janitor stood beside his mop bucket again, as though he’d been waiting. His face seemed older than it had minutes ago, deep lines etched into the skin around his eyes.

“You heard him, didn’t you?” he asked.

Albert swallowed hard. “What is it? What’s happening?”

Briggs leaned in close, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “That voice doesn’t belong to the living. It’s a shade—a hollow thing that feeds on acknowledgment. You answer, you give it ground. You give it you.”

Lena’s fingers tightened on her binder. “How does it know our names?”

“Because it listens. Always has. Been listening for years.” Briggs’s eyes glimmered. “Every so often, a kid gets bold, thinks it’s just a story. They answer back. And then they’re gone. No body. No search. No answers.”

Maya’s voice cracked. “Gone how?”

Briggs shook his head. “Don’t matter how. Just… gone.” He shifted his weight against the mop handle, his expression tightening. “The only thing keeping you safe is silence. Don’t talk back. Don’t even whisper. If you ignore him, he can’t reach you.”

Jordan scoffed. “So what, we just pretend he’s not there?”

Briggs stared at him with an intensity that left him stunned. “If you’re smart, boy, you’ll do more than pretend. You’ll leave.”

Without waiting for a reply, Briggs pushed his mop bucket onward, the squeak of its wheels fading into the distance.

The four students stood, rooted to the spot, until the rumble returned, stretching Jordan’s name into something slow and hungry.

“Jooooor-daaaaan,” it called. “I know you can heeeeeear meeeeee.”

They made for the front doors at a brisk pace, their nerves frayed.

Albert pushed against the heavy glass doors. They rattled but didn’t budge. He tried again, putting his weight into it. The bar gave an inch, then clamped back like someone had welded it shut.

“Emergency exits!” Maya said, already moving toward the side hall. “We’ll try those!”

But the side doors resisted, too. Chains wound across the crash bars, thick and rusted, as though they’d been there for years. None of them had noticed before.

“This doesn’t make sense!” Albert muttered. He pounded the glass with his palm, the sound muffled, swallowed by the dark beyond the courtyard. “They weren’t like this when we came in!”

Lena backed away, eyes darting to the ceiling. “It’s him! He’s keeping us here!”

The floor shuddered under their feet. From the stairwell, the rumbling voice swelled again, crawling through the ducts and vents until it vibrated through their ribs.

“Saaaaaaay my naaaaaame.”

The syllables dragged like chains on stone.

Albert set his jaw, refusing to speak. Maya gripped his arm so tight her nails dug through the fabric of his sleeve. Lena pressed her binder to her chest and whispered a prayer through clenched teeth. Jordan, though—his grin returned, thin and reckless. “You guys are freaking out over nothing. It’s a recording, or a prank. Somebody’s messing with us.”

He leaned toward the open corridor and shouted, “Hey! Marcus!”

The effect was instant. The lights flickered and dimmed, plunging the hallway into stuttering darkness. A cold that wasn’t natural swept through, sharp enough to sting the lungs. Jordan’s smirk faltered as a new whisper coiled directly into his ear, too faint for the others to hear. His pencil slipped from his fingers, clattering on the tile.

“J-J-Jordan?” Albert said.

But Jordan only stared at the shadows pooling at the far end of the hallway. His lips moved, repeating something under his breath, though no one could make out the words.

Albert grabbed his arm, tugging him toward a classroom. Maya shoved the door open, and together they hauled him inside. Lena slammed it shut, locking it.

They huddled in the dark, the classroom barely lit by the flicker of failing fluorescents.

The shadows on the floor weren’t still. They pulsed like veins, stretching from the corners and creeping toward Jordan’s shoes. He didn’t notice. His head tilted as though listening to something only he could hear.

Jordan sat hunched at the edge of a desk, his knuckles white where they gripped the seat. His lips worked soundlessly, repeating a phrase Albert couldn’t catch. Every so often, Jordan’s head twitched as if in answer to some unheard command.

“Jordan,” Maya said, crouching in front of him and searching his eyes. “Hey! Look at me! Snap out of it!”

He blinked at her, expression slack, then muttered in a low voice, “He says it’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

Albert and Lena exchanged a panicked look. Neither of them spoke. The shadows crawling along the floorboards had thickened into veins of darkness, converging near the door as if gathering strength.

Then the knob rattled.

Albert staggered back, nearly knocking over a chair. Something was outside, pressing with unseen hands, making the glass tremble.

Lena forced herself to the window in the door. Beyond the wire mesh, the corridor was no longer empty. At the far end, a figure stood, silhouetted in the buzzing light. It was human-shaped, but too thin and gangly, the proportions wrong.

It was Marcus Vey—or, rather, what was left of him. His mouth gaped wide, devoid of lips and teeth, a hollow cavity stretching down into nothing. The rumbling voice seeped from that abyss, a constant growl that made the classroom vibrate.

Lena staggered back from the window, her voice tight. “That’s not him. Not anymore. That’s… wearing him.”

The thing shifted, jerking closer in the time it took the light to flicker. One second it stood at the end of the hall, the next it pressed its face near the glass. The hollow mouth never moved, but the sound swelled louder: “Saaaaay it.”

The door quaked against its hinges, though no hand touched it. The glass wobbled in the frame, rattling hard enough that spiderweb cracks spread from the edges.

Jordan flinched but didn’t scream. He whispered back, almost too softly to hear.

And the thing waited, patiently, as if testing how long before silence would break.

Jordan clutched his head, rocking against the desk. His whisper rose into a shout, desperate and raw. “I’m not yours, Marcus! You can’t have me! No!”

The moment the words left his mouth, the thing reacted. The hollow cavity of its face widened, and the sound that poured out was no longer a rumble but a chorus of voices, dozens, maybe hundreds, layered together in a grinding roar. The classroom walls buckled outward as if breathing.

Albert grabbed Jordan by the arm, trying to drag him to his feet. Maya screamed at him to move, but Jordan’s body had gone rigid, pulled backward by something unseen. His sneakers screeched against the floor as he was dragged toward the door, toward the cracks spreading across the glass.

“Hold him!” Albert shouted, but his grip slipped. The shadows curled like ropes around Jordan’s legs, coiling higher.

Lena lunged forward, but it was too late. The glass imploded without shattering, the door itself bending inward, and Jordan was yanked through in one violent motion. His scream cut off mid-breath as he was swallowed whole.

When the silence settled, only the echo remained, his voice now woven into its depths, calling Albert’s name in that same grinding resonance.

The classroom door hung twisted in its frame, glass littering the hall outside like frost. Albert stared at the empty space where Jordan had been, the sound of his name still vibrating in the air. Maya clutched his arm, trembling. Lena’s lips moved soundlessly, her prayer cut short by the echo that rolled back through the building, now mirroring Jordan’s cadence.

They bolted breathlessly into the hallway, running past lockers that rattled as though fists were hammering them from inside. Overhead lights strobed, plunging the corridors into alternating frames of light and shadow, each flicker revealing the stretched figure lurching closer, its gaping maw yawning wider by the moment.

Albert shoved open the stairwell door, and they tumbled down two flights, shoes slamming against the metal steps. The air grew hotter as they descended, the faint vibration of machinery growing louder until they stumbled into the boiler room.

The space churned with heat. Metal pipes sweated and hissed, the boiler groaning ominously.

Mr. Briggs stood waiting, a rusted crowbar in his hand. His face was pale, but his jaw was set. “I told you not to answer!”

Albert opened his mouth, but no words came.

Briggs shoved the crowbar into the seam of a service door and heaved until the frame cracked. Cold night air spilled in, sharp and biting against the furnace heat. “Go!” he barked. “And don’t ever come back after dark!”

Maya pulled Albert through, Lena close behind. They stumbled into the parking lot, gasping, the stars overhead blurred through a mist they hadn’t noticed before. Behind them, the school loomed, its windows glowing faintly red as though lit from within.

Albert turned back one last time. From deep inside, carried on the wind, came Jordan’s voice—calling his name, pleading for him to answer.

Albert shut his mouth tight, and with great effort, resisted the urge to turn around. He forced himself to keep moving. His throat ached with words he refused to say, words clawing for release every time Jordan’s voice rolled out from the building. Maya’s hand tightened on his sleeve, dragging him forward, while Lena walked in silence, her face pale and rigid. They didn’t stop until they reached the far side of the lot, where the school was just a looming shape against the night sky.

Even there, they could still hear him.

“Albeeeeeeert. Come baaaaaack. Don’t leeeeeeave me heeeeeere.”

Albert bit down hard, his jaw trembling, refusing the pull of the echo. He turned his face away and led the others into the dark.

* * * * * *

Jordan Pike was reported missing the following morning. His parents noticed his absence when his bed was untouched, his school bag still propped by the door. His mother, frantic, called every number in his phone. His father drove the streets before dawn, searching with the desperation of a man trying to prove to himself that the worst hadn’t happened.

By mid-morning, the police had been notified. A missing persons report was filed, flyers printed, and neighbors questioned. The school was swept room by room, its basement and storage closets checked twice. Investigators found nothing. There was no sign of Jordan or of a struggle. The officers left shaking their heads, muttering the word “runaway” beneath their breath.

That afternoon, Albert sat on the edge of his bed, guilt-ridden, a flyer trembling in his hands. It read: Missing — Jordan Pike. Last seen at Northway High, 9:30 PM. He couldn’t bear to look at the photograph, which showed Jordan smirking in a half-serious senior portrait, the same grin he’d worn before he’d spoken the name.

When he met Maya and Lena later, they didn’t talk about Jordan. Not really. They sat together in the quiet corner of the library, the three of them pale and sleepless. Finally, Lena whispered, “No one would believe us.”

“They’d lock us up,” Maya added. “Or worse.”

Albert looked down at his hands, remembering Briggs’s words. Don’t even whisper. He thought about the voice, about the way it had changed once Jordan had answered. The way it had worn him.

“We don’t tell,” Albert said at last, his voice low and heavy. “Not to anyone. We say we don’t know. That’s it.”

All three nodded, bound not by trust but by fear.

* * * * * *

Jordan’s was not the only disappearance.

Mr. Harlan Briggs, longtime custodian of Northway High, never reported for work again. His apartment was found empty, his rent left unpaid, his belongings still inside. He left no forwarding address, no goodbye. His absence stitched itself into the whispers surrounding Jordan’s case, and soon speculation grew louder than fact. Some said Briggs had known what happened and skipped town to avoid the police. Others said he’d snapped, dragged Jordan away, and vanished with him, suggesting they always knew something had been off about the old man.

The truth remained sealed in the silence of the three survivors who had been there. They never spoke Briggs’s name again, not even to each other.

* * * * * *

That same week, the school hired a new custodian.

Mr. Teller was younger and stockier, his uniform crisp, his expression plain and untroubled. He worked the halls in the evenings, the squeak of his mop bucket echoing off the tiles.

At first, he noticed nothing unusual. The building seemed no different from any other he had worked in. But on his third night, while sweeping the second-floor stairwell, he paused.

A sound rolled out of the walls, deep and low. He frowned, listening, broom braced loosely in his hand.

The rumble returned, thick syllables dragging through the air like they came from beneath the concrete itself.

“Saaaaaaay my naaaaame.”

Teller blinked. “W-what n-name?” he muttered, half amused, half uneasy.

The voice stretched long, savoring the shape of the words.

Jooooooor-daaaaaan Piiiiiiike.