When I found the note inside my schoolbag, I was certain it
was a joke. It was a small, crumpled piece of paper with only six words written
on it: “Whatever happens, do not open Locker 27.” I stared at it for a
moment, wondering who had slipped it into my bag. Locker 27 stood at the end of
the oldest corridor in our school. It had been locked for as long as anyone
could remember, and students often whispered ridiculous stories about it. Some
claimed that a student had disappeared there years ago, while others insisted
that strange noises could sometimes be heard behind its rusty door. I had
always considered these stories nonsense—until I received that note.
By lunchtime, curiosity had completely defeated common
sense. I quietly made my way towards the abandoned corridor, trying to convince
myself that I was simply investigating a harmless prank. The hallway was
unusually silent, and even my footsteps seemed strangely loud. As I approached
Locker 27, I noticed something that made my stomach twist. A tiny golden key
was hanging from the lock. I glanced around, but there was no one in sight.
Against my better judgment, I picked it up and inserted it into the lock. Click.
The door creaked open. Inside was a single red envelope resting on a dusty
shelf. My name was written across it in neat, black handwriting.
With trembling hands, I opened the envelope. Inside was
another note. “You were warned.” Before I could understand what it
meant, the lights above me flickered violently and went out. I heard footsteps
approaching from the other end of the corridor. They were slow and deliberate,
as if whoever was coming knew exactly where I was. I quickly pulled out my
phone and switched on the flashlight, but the corridor was empty. Then my phone
vibrated. A message from an unknown number appeared on the screen: “You
shouldn't have opened the locker.” My heart began pounding. A second
message arrived almost immediately. “Now run.”
I didn't hesitate. I sprinted down the corridor and nearly
crashed into the principal. He grabbed my arm, clearly annoyed by my sudden
appearance, but his expression changed when I breathlessly mentioned Locker 27.
“You opened it?” he asked. His voice was barely a whisper. I nodded. For
several seconds, he simply stared at me. Then he glanced nervously towards the
corridor and said, “That locker hasn't been opened in twenty years.” I felt a
cold shiver run down my spine. “Then why was there a note with my name on it?”
I asked. The principal didn't answer. Instead, he pulled me into his office and
locked the door behind us.
That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling and
replaying everything in my mind. Just as I was beginning to convince myself
that the whole thing had been an elaborate prank, my phone vibrated again. I
slowly picked it up. There was one new message from the same unknown number. “You
forgot something.” My hands began to shake as a photograph appeared
underneath the message. It showed me standing in front of Locker 27 that
afternoon. I zoomed in on the picture—and froze. Someone was standing directly
behind me. Their face was hidden in the darkness, but I could clearly see one
thing: they were holding the same golden key. Then another message
appeared. “Tomorrow, Locker 28.”