We had been living in that rented house for barely a month when I first noticed my sister’s odd habit of slipping into the dark passage. It wasn’t just the passage that unsettled me, but the room it led to — a small, solitary chamber with no windows, no lights, and only one way in: its door. The strange thing was, despite its position, the room always seemed too cold, like the sunlight from outside refused to enter.
That day when I followed her in and found no one, I was disturbed. She insisted she had been “with someone,” but when I brought her back, she went on with her playing as if nothing had happened.
At first, we thought her constant muttering about “teacher” was just her way of interpreting school life. “The teacher will get angry if I spill food,” she’d say, or, “The teacher will punish me if I don’t share my toys.” We all laughed it off. But then… her tone changed. It became less of a playful warning, and more of a whisper. A reminder.
One evening, when she suddenly broke away during a game of snakes and ladders and sprinted down the old passage again, I knew something was wrong. This time I didn’t call her name. I followed in silence, keeping my footsteps light until I reached the open yard.
The sight that greeted me froze my blood.
Inside that small, windowless room, my sister wasn’t alone. Sitting across from her was a little girl. She was pale, unnaturally pale, her hair matted and damp, her body completely naked but without any sign of shame. Her skin looked… wrong. Almost like she hadn’t seen sunlight for years.
When they noticed me, my sister looked startled, but the girl didn’t. In fact, she smiled at me — a wide smile that didn’t belong on a child’s face. And then she said, in a flat, chilling voice:
“Teacher will be angry. You weren’t supposed to see me.”
Before I could react, my sister screamed at me to leave. She was trembling, clutching the girl’s hand, as though she had to.
I grabbed my sister and pulled her out. She fought me, harder than I imagined a 7-year-old could, screaming “Teacher will punish me! Teacher will punish me!” over and over.
That night, things changed.
My sister wouldn’t eat. She sat in a corner of her bed, rocking slowly, whispering to herself. Every now and then, she’d look at me and hiss, “You shouldn’t have come. Now she’ll tell teacher.”
By morning, she had scratches all over her arms. Long, nail-like gouges that she couldn’t have made herself. My mother suspected she’d hurt herself in her sleep, but the marks looked like they came from something with hands far too big for a child.
Over the next few days, the silence of the house shifted. Doors creaked when no one touched them. At night, we heard faint footsteps in the passage, though all four of us stayed in our rooms. My father tried to lock the passage door, but the following morning, it was wide open… and muddy footprints led from it straight to my sister’s bed.
The footprints were smaller than hers.
And then came the night I’ll never forget.
I woke up to my sister’s laughter in the courtyard. Not playful laughter. Mocking. The sound of it echoed in the stillness of midnight.
When I ran out, she was standing hand-in-hand with that pale girl under the faint glow of the moon. But this time, there was someone else standing just behind them.
A tall, dark figure, almost featureless, with a crooked head that tilted unnaturally sideways, watching me.
The girl looked at me, pointed, and giggled, “Teacher is here now.”
My sister turned her head slowly toward me… her eyes no longer hers. Blank, glassy, staring straight through me. And in the silence that followed, the figure whispered something I’ll never forget — a voice that didn’t come from around me, but from inside my head.
“She belongs to us. You looked when you shouldn’t have. Now teacher knows you, too.”
The next moment, the world went black.
I woke up the next morning in my room. My parents said they found me unconscious in the open yard, but my sister was still in bed. She looked… normal. As if nothing had happened. She smiled at me at breakfast, humming like a child again.
But I can’t forget what I saw.
And sometimes, when the nights are too quiet… I hear her humming through the walls, followed by a whisper:
“Teacher is watching.”
