13 Ghost Stories in 13 Days

The New Girl

11 min readOct 5, 2022

John Robinson didn’t have time for anxiety.

He counted five things he could see: A twisted tree outside a barred window. Dangling power lines shooting sparks. A growing graveyard of broken pencils that he bought with his own money the previous weekend. The hole in the wall that Robert created when he threw himself into it because the wall was “making him mad.” The trail of cockroaches marching through the hole from the fifth grade class next door.

This might not work. He took a centering breath.

Four things he could feel: The softness of the sweater his ex-girlfriend knitted him before she disappeared. The slickness of the leaking pen in his pocket. The hole atop his right work shoe above his always wiggling big toe. The creeping feeling of helplessness.

Three things he could hear: A head slamming into a car door as two neighbors argued over a parking space. The sweet sound of pencils scribbling on paper. A nasally voice piercing the tranquility —

“Sir,” the voice cried. “She’s dick eating.”

John Robinson rubbed his forehead. His cognitive behavioral exercises would have to wait.

“Owen,” he said. “That’s not the language we use in this room. Strike one.”

“Sorry,” the student said. “The fine young woman is agitating me.”

“Thank you,” John Robinson replied, already feeling less anxious. “And no one’s agitating you. All the girls have been suspended because three of them got into a pre-planned fight at lunch and the rest filmed and distributed it on social media and then came in and showed the video to the assistant principal.”

“The assistant principal thought it was funny,” said Larry, who perpetually calls out.

“Larry, please don’t call out.”

Owen, the easily agitated middle schooler with a lifetime of seasonal allergies, went on.

“But they didn’t suspend, her,” he said. “She’s looking at me.”

John Robinson wanted his students to feel heard, so he walked toward the Dark Side Of The Room. It had been sectioned off with caution tape years earlier, because of an asbestos issue. Recently the lightbulb had burned out. No one entered the darkside of the room. It was a void. Eternally empty.

Owen started screaming.

John Robinson took a measured breath and exhaled any lingering negativity. Owen was one of the good kids. Sure, he pepper sprayed his best friend the previous November, forcing John to teach the rest of the day in the scrapyard behind the school, but that kind of ended up a fun change of pace. Made him feel like Socrates. And whatever Owen was, he wasn’t a liar. Usually.

“Owen, please stop screaming,” he said. “The volume in our class is currently set to Level 1.”

Owen lowered his screams to a library level. He gripped the table. John Robinson realized Owen might suffer from an anxiety disorder. Maybe this could be a teachable moment.

“Hey buddy, why don’t you try looking around the room and telling me five things you can see?” he said.

Owen slowly let go of the desk and began using his five senses. Perhaps this could be a good segue into a lesson on imagery.

“Let’s all try it,” John Robinson continued. “Our classroom narratives could use some sensory details.”

Owen crossed his eyes.

“I see a brokeass classroom in a brokeass school … I see some brokeass pencils. .. I see some BROKEASS GIRL with NO EYES who IS LOOKING AT ME.”

“How could she be looking at you if she has no eyes?” said Larry, who perpetually calls out.

“Excellent question,” John Robinson said. “That’s the kind of intellectual rigor I want to see in here. But please don’t call out.”

Owen glared at Larry, who perpetually calls out.

“Sir,” Owen continued. “You told me to tell you if someone is dick eating — ”

“Ahem.”

“When someone is … violating my established personal boundaries and becoming purposely disrespectful in effort to cause me agitation,” he said, sucking his teeth. “That when such an event occurs, I should tell you rather than getting myself in trouble for someone else’s actions. And so, sir, with all due respect, what I am telling you is… The girl has no eyes but… She. Is. Looking. At. Me!”

Owen was not on the waiting list for students in need of evaluation by the psychologist, who visited on the third Tuesday of every month. Whatever was going on was not in the young man’s head. Was John Robinson misunderstanding the situation? Were all the girls truly suspended? Perhaps one of his students had changed their gender identification. The class was a safe space and he needed to be open to sudden shifts.

“To whom are you referring?” John Robinson asked. “This is a safe space. You can tell me.”

Owen stood up and pointed toward The Dark Side of the Room.

“Her,” he said. “The girl in the white dress.”

At this point, any hope of continuing with Writer’s Workshop had ended. The whole class turned to stare into The Dark Side of the Room. John Robinson had only a few moments before he lost them completely.

“One, two, three, all eyes on me,” he commanded. The students reflexively snapped his way. “I want to keep the focus on learning and not on girls who may or may not be in The Dark Side of the Room. Let’s do a turn and talk. I’m going to set a timer for two minutes. You guys please discuss a moment in which you saw something you couldn’t comprehend. I want your partners to determine what it might all mean. Who can tell me what a metaphor is?”

The class stared back vacantly. John Robinson suddenly felt very cold.

“A metaphor is — ”

“Her vibes are off,” Owen cried.

“Owen, stop calling out.”

“But Sir,” Owen whined. “You said this room is for Good Vibes Only.”

“You did say that, sir,” called out Larry, who always calls out.

“Larry,” John Robinson said. “Enough.”

“Oh wow,” said Marcel, the math whiz. “Her vibes are off!”

The whole class rushed toward the caution tape and John Robinson had no choice but to admit that he also saw the girl.

She was spectral and glowing, dressed all in white. Her hair was translucent and matted to her forehead. The black veins beneath her skin were visible and her arms were too long for her body. Her eyes were horrible blank sockets that seemed to reach far deeper than where the back of her head should have been. Owen had been telling the truth.

John Robinson massaged the side of his jaw to make sure it wasn’t clenching. This was a trigger for him. The administration was always switching students’ classes without telling him. Maybe she was new. Or maybe she’d been kicked out of Room 313 and they quietly moved her over here to avoid reporting their true suspension numbers.

“You must be new,” John Robinson said. “You shouldn’t be hovering in the Dark Side Of The Room like that. Too much asbestos. Why don’t you sit over here by Owen?”

Owen cried out in agony. But John Robinson was doing the right thing. These kids needed to learn how to get along with people they didn’t like. Maybe years from now Owen would marry The New Girl and they’d invite John Robinson to their wedding.

The girl glided preternaturally over to the empty chair next to Owen.

“She keeps saying my name all weird,” Owen said.

“I think she’s moaning,’” pointed out Luis, the smartest kid in class. “Not saying ‘Owen.’”

Owen huffed. John Robinson counted his activity sheets and frowned. He had not printed enough for an extra student and he was over his weekly allotment of ink. She was going to feel left out. He’d save the activity for tomorrow. Maybe they could pivot to oral fluency.

“Welcome to class 316,” John Robinson said. “Or as we like to call ourselves, Robinson’s Radically Respectful Ragers.”

The class started hooting and hollering. John Robinson held up a hand and they stopped.

“Would you like to tell us two truths and a lie about yourself?”

The girl opened her mouth and a thousand spiders poured out. Every boy ran to the far side of the room and huddled against the wall.

“She’s got COVID 19!” yelled out Jack B.

“Do you have COVID 19?” John Robinson asked. “We don’t have any tests. You have to self-report. We respect each other in here.”

The spiders began filling the room. He couldn’t see the window.

“I can’t be around a girl with COVID-19,” cried out Jack C. “I live with my Grandma. She has psoriasis.”

Roger, the sneak, stood up and addressed the class. He was holding his cell phone.

“Spiders falling out of your mouth is not a symptom of COVID-19,” he said. “I googled it.”

“If I see that cell phone again I’m taking it,” John Robinson said. He turned to the new girl. “I think you should probably wear a mask regardless. As long as that makes you comfortable.”

He walked over to the Sanitation Station and frowned.

“We’re all out.”

In the back, Michael, the unnecessary thief, stood up. He was wearing 40 masks around his neck like battle trophies.

“Did your parents sign the form?” John Robinson asked. “The nurse can’t give you medicine if your parents didn’t sign this form.”

“The nurse ain’t here today,” said Larry, who always calls out. “She’s at a different school.”

Marcus, who was oblivious, held up two fingers, indicating he wanted a drink of water.

“Good idea,” John Robinson said. “Let’s get The New Girl a drink of water.”

“The water fountain is broke — ,” called out Larry.

John Robinson did not correct him for saying “broke” instead of “broken,” because it was pedantic and Larry’s meaning was still understood and also because Larry was probably going to say broken, but at that moment he clutched his throat and began levitating three feet above the classroom library.

“Larry, please get down,” John Robinson said. “When I said I wanted you to soar, I meant that metaphorically … Which means what, class?”

The students screamed in terror as Larry, who always called out, was split in half down the middle.

“At least it will be quieter in here,” called out Mark, who filled the void after Larry, who perpetually called out, was ripped in two.

“Mark, please stop calling out,” John Robinson said, desperate to salvage the learning environment. “I’m thinking about Word Study. Who remembers what bisected means?”

The students ran toward the door, which had been replaced with a serpent’s head. Tiny Paul desperately flung himself at the door and was swallowed whole.

“It appears we have entered Lockdown One,” John Robinson said, flipping a switch, which was unnecessary because all the light in the room had been gathered into an orb by The New Girl. She tossed it at Owen and he vanished with a sizzle into a puff of smoke.

John Robinson glared at the broken loudspeaker. It would have been nice to have a heads up about this drill. He grabbed their emergency kit. Inside were two used Band-Aids. They’d make it work.

“You all know what to do,” he said.

The kids jumped under their desks and covered their heads. Byron, the clown, made a fart noise. John Robinson said nothing. Different people have different trauma responses.

John Robinson checked the classroom phone. It was dead. He peered into the hole in the wall to see if the fifth grade class next door was still engaged in the drill. The room was engulfed in flames and blood.

The darkness was broken by the glow of Roger the Sneak’s phone.

“I’ll take that now,” John Robinson said. “You can have it back when your parent arrives to pick you up.”

“That bitch died 50 years ago this very night,” Roger the Sneak announced.

“Excuse me,” John Robinson said. “This is an intellectual environment.”

Roger pointed at his phone.

“According to the text,” he began and rolled his eyes. “That bitch died 50 years ago this very night.”

John Robinson took the phone. It showed a newspaper article about a deadly fire in The Dark Side of the Classroom. The victim in the picture was less grotesque and her skin was less translucent, but it was undoubtedly The New Girl.

“Excellent job citing a primary source,” John Robinson said. “This is the best way for us to learn about the past.”

The kids stared back at him blankly

“And what would be an even more accurate source than a newspaper to learn about the past?” The students said nothing. “Perhaps an actual first-person witness?” More blank stares. “I’ll give you a hint. She’s floating in the back of the room.”

Elijah pointed hopefully at the poster of Maya Angelou.

“Close,” John Robinson said. “Class, let’s ask The New Girl what life was like when she was alive. Your task is to record any pertinent information she said and we will turn it into a three paragraph essay tomorrow.”

“Three paragraphs? Impossible!” cried Billy the Whiner, as he burst into flames.

“A Homework Pass to the first student courageous enough to ask the New Girl a question.”

All the students began chittering at once.

“Do you know my grandma? She has psoriasis.”

“Why do you look like you’re from the 1990s?”

“Does it hurt to be dead?”

The new girl shook violently as the questions poured in. The orb in front of her grew bigger. The questions kept coming.

“Do you watch Naruto?

“What is God really like?”

“Have you ever kissed a girl?”

The girl vibrated from within. The light vanished. A wind swept through the classroom. He could hear his ancestors screaming in pain. The room became unbearably hot, then unnaturally cold. He made a note to call maintenance.

He lit his emergency candle. It smelled like pumpkin spice. The girl was gone.

John Robinson sighed. He was foolish to think such a valuable primary source would stick around their school. She’d probably gone on to haunt the Quaker school down the street. He went to his locker and blew the dust off an old textbook. Learning what students learned in 1972 would have to do.

The class stared back at him. They were bloody and covered in an otherworldly ash. But they were alive. Mostly.

“Ok guys let’s get in a circle,” he said, grabbing the talking stick. “What do you think you would be doing if you were a student 50 years ago this very night?”

Elijah’s hand shot up. John Robinson smiled at him hopefully.

“I lost my pencil,” he said.

“There’s a hole in your shoe,” called out Mark, who filled the void after Larry, who always called out, was ripped in two.

“That wall is making me mad,” said Robert.

John Robinson didn’t have time for anxiety.

The only rule of 13 Ghost Stories in 13 Days is that I must post the story the day I start writing it, but I am breaking that rule this year because that’s too much pressure. So the only rule of 13 Ghost Stories in 13 Days is: There are no rules.

13 Ghost Stories in 13 Days

The New Girl

Written by Mark Macyk