Page 53 of Horror and Chill

He nods, lower lip caught between his teeth. “This question. I don’t get it.”

I guide him through the numbers, pointing to the spots where he mixed them up, and his face lights up when he sees the answer fall into place. Kids don’t fake that kind of joy. It softens me, even when I feel like I’m cracking apart.

“Good work,” I tell him, handing the pencil back. “Got anything fun planned this week?”

His grin widens, a little gap showing where he lost a tooth. “I hope so. My uncles said they’re gonna come get me. They always take me once a week to do something fun.”

My chest tightens at that word,uncles, but I force a smile. “Sounds like you’ve got a pretty good deal there.”

“Yeah,” he says with a nod, proud.

He trots back to his desk after setting his worksheet in the finished work bin, and I watch him go, wishing I had an uncle to save me when I was a child.

When the final bell rings, the hallways empty into a clamor of laughter and sneakers squeaking against the floor. I wave goodbye, lock up the classroom, and walk out into the cooling air.

The sun sits low, dragging long shadows across the pavement as I head toward the lot. My bag is heavier than usual, even though I know it’s just the stack of worksheets I promised myself I’d grade tonight.

I unlock my car and slide behind the wheel, gripping the steering wheel harder than I need to. The silence makes it worse. No chatter of students, no hum of the building. Just me and the thud of my pulse in my ears.

I back out, glance in the rearview mirror, and for a second I swear headlights linger half a block down. Too far to make out, too steady to call coincidence. I tell myself it’s nothing. Just another teacher leaving late. Just another neighbor heading home.

The drive feels longer than it should. Every stoplight is too red, every turn too sharp, and I keep checking the mirrors like I’ll catch someone there if I just look quick enough. But it’s only me. Always only me.

By the time I reach my house and unlock the door, the feeling is too strong to ignore. I freeze in the doorway, the key still in my hand. My skin prickles with the certainty that I’m being watched.

I spin around.

The sidewalk is empty. No cars rolling by. No neighbors peeking through blinds. Just stillness, ordinary and quiet.

But I know what I felt.

I step inside, slam the door, and lean back against it with my eyes shut. My breathing is uneven. “My place is too quiet, too normal. I dig in my bag, drop the ungraded worksheets on the coffee table, sigh, kick off my shoes, and sit down with a pen.

I grade a few pages, circling mistakes, writing encouragements. The words blur together until I set the pen down and rub my eyes. I can’t focus. I keep thinking about them.

That’s when the idea sparks.

I flip open my laptop and start planning. The calendar shoot.

A My Bloody Valentine theme…perfect. Bloody hearts, chains, a mask, a girl screaming pretty for the camera. The image builds in my head fast, vivid and impossible to ignore. But the location is the problem. No mines around here. No tunnels I can slip into. I need something old, something eerie.

Google gives me the answer. A cemetery nearby,but not the manicured suburban kind. This one has crypts, old stone mausoleums with doors rusted shut and names no one remembers anymore. Perfect.

I know the cemetery liaison would never approve what I want to do. Not a chance. So I dig deeper. Groundskeeper. Someone who controls access, who actually holds the keys. His name pops up, tagged in local posts about clean-up days and holiday wreath sales. He’s older, not much of a social presence, but he has a Facebook page.

I stare at his profile picture, then click the message button.

Hi, my name is Agatha. I’m a content creator, and I’d love to book some time in your cemetery for a private shoot. I’m willing to pay generously. Please call me.

I leave my number. I expect silence. Maybe a reply tomorrow. The phone rings before I can even shut the laptop.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end is gruff. “This is Herbert. You messaged about the cemetery?”

“Yes.” I sit up straighter. “I want to do a horror movie themed movie shoot. I’d need one of the crypts, or the mausoleum area. Just a couple of hours. Private. No damage to anything, of course.”

He snorts. “Absolutely not. That’s not what this place is for.”