Mr. Milner’s Ghost Story
My favourite teacher at high school was Graham Milner. He was my Head of Year throughout the five years I was there and taught me for Religious Education in Year 9. At that point, I had little interest in RE or any of the humanities subjects and had in fact been moved down a set at the end of the previous year, my lack of enthusiasm evidenced by my effort and attainment grades which had steadily declined over that twelve-month period. I wasn’t by any means a badly-behaved kid, but I was a constant daydreamer. Certain teachers seemed to have little or no passion for their subject, their voices a monotonous buzz of meaningless information while their apparent boredom became infectious as I steadily lost interest and drifted into my own teenage fantasies. I had found the humanities staff who taught me in Year 8 to be especially dull and my daydreaming had become an inevitable release. Mr. Milner’s approach to teaching made it impossible for me to switch off. In his mid-fifties, he was by now firmly established at the school and although he wasn’t a particularly tall man, even the biggest lads in Year 11 were terrified of him. He seemed at all times fearless and imposing, filling up every room he entered with the combined confidence of an adult man and the vitality of a teenager. I could only watch in awe as this whirlwind of energy would stride around the front of the classroom, his voice rising and falling in such a precise and controlled manner that every piece of information was stamped into my brain. Christianity. Buddhism. Hinduism. Sikhism. Judaism. Islam. Throughout that year I soaked up everything. I never found out if Mr. Milner himself was a follower of any religion but he always spoke respectfully of adherents to the topics we covered, emphasising that each one demanded a disciplined lifestyle of commitment and self-respect. At the end of that academic year I scored the highest mark in the exam; an incredible 97%. My new-found enthusiasm for learning had spread to other subjects, reflected in my rising grades and my glowing reports from teachers. I credit this entirely to Mr. Milner. It was somewhere toward the end of the academic year after having covered all major religions that we were discussing the more general topic of spirituality and souls, and with the mention of spirits came a brief reference to ghosts. Mr. Milner rarely allowed himself to get sidetracked; he liked to remain firmly focused on the subject and any slight shift in that focus had to be relevant in developing his students’ knowledge before it was firmly realigned. Pausing to take questions that lesson, one of the boys asked ‘Do you believe in ghosts, sir?’I was so accustomed to Mr. Milner’s sharp and direct manner that my ear was able to appreciate the slight trace of unease as he answered in a low voice. ‘I didn’t when I was your age. But then I saw one’. Silence. The class had always given him their full attention, but now that attention was magnified tenfold and the need to know more was tangible. No-one actually said it, but the words ‘Tell us’ occupied the room like a sudden influx of hungry dogs with pleading eyes. Mr. Milner would never simply indulge this need in order to massage his ego or to appease a classroom full of young teenagers who should be focused on RE, but with all the material now covered, with all the results having exceeded expectations and with all the class now firmly under his control, he rewarded us with the story that follows. When I was 14, my year at school went on a residential trip to Hope Valley in the Peak District. Back then, boys and girls went to separate schools, so there were just over 30 boys and three teachers staying at a hotel outside the village of Hope. We arrived on a Monday morning in mid-February for five days of hill-walking. For most of us it was our first time away from our parents. The weather wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t great either. Heavy rain the week before meant the area was now covered in a grey wash of thin fog. Despite this miserable tone, our spirits were high and we were looking forward to our adventure. We were the last group to be staying at the hotel before it was due to shut for renovations, so we had the entire second floor to ourselves, the third floor having already been emptied and cleaned in preparation for the closure. The first floor was mostly staff bedrooms, cleaning cupboards and laundry; the ground floor was taken up by conference rooms and the kitchen and dining area. There were perhaps ten staff in total, overseen by the head caretaker, a kindly, round-faced man called Mr. Baker. He and his amiable black labrador, Tosca, were the only permanent residents. Because there was an odd number of boys in the year group and the rooms slept two apiece, I was the only one with a room to myself, a single bedroom in the very centre of the second floor corridor. I did not know how it had been decided that it would be me who would have this room, but I assume it was because I was quietly confident and that I wouldn’t put up any fuss about the matter, which I did not. The room had only a bed, a sink, a wardrobe and a bedside chest of drawers. A small window looked out onto the misty hotel grounds below. Although basic, we were not expecting to spend a great deal of time indoors anyway, so it was cosy enough and I unpacked and settled in quickly that first morning. On that first day we walked the five miles or so up and around Mam Tor, a hill in the heart of the valley. As boys, we laughed at the endless cowpats and playfully jeered at how slow some of our number were in getting up the hill before pausing at the top to take a breather and look at the incredible view of the surrounding area. Everything was shrouded in a veil of fog. The catering staff had provided us all with a paper lunch bag consisting of ham sandwiches, a bag of crisps and a biscuit. We found a comfortable spot to eat and then it was a long walk back to the hotel. Once there, we were rewarded with tea and buns before showering and changing into clean clothing. Before our evening meal, we were given exercise books and told to start a diary about our trip. It was a simple and restful activity and we enjoyed having the freedom to write our accounts while chatting and sprawled out on the sofas, lounging across the wide staircases or sitting at the conference room tables rather than being behind regimented desks in an orderly classroom environment. The only real drama that day had been one of the teaching staff, Mr. Clark, twisting his left ankle as we made our way down Mam Tor. The discomfort and annoyance was written all over his face and it was obvious he was suppressing the need to shout and swear as he’d hobbled alongside us. Most of us had mentioned his misfortune in our diaries but we’d been careful not to present it in too humorous a manner. Our evening meal followed and then we had two hours to ourselves to read, quietly play board games or write a letter home. At 9.30pm we were sent to our rooms and at 10pm our teachers walked the corridor to ensure we were all ready for bed and that all lights were out. I could pick out Mr. Clark’s limping gait as he passed my room. I quickly settled into the darkness. I was sure the other boys were now lying awake, almost certainly chatting and laughing quietly together in their pairs as they drifted off. Although I was a little jealous about being alone and having no-one to snigger with as I fell asleep, I reassured myself that I’d probably nod off much sooner and feel far fresher the next morning. That first day had been fun but exhausting and I was definitely ready for bed. I’m sure we all were. It wasn’t long before I was fast asleep. I know some of you might dismiss what happened to me next as obviously just a dream, but I know what I saw, and it was as clear to me then as I’m seeing you all now. I don’t know what time it was when I opened my eyes, but it was still dark outside. I also don’t know why I even opened my eyes at all. Both the room and the corridor were silent and I’d been sleeping so deeply it was unlikely the mild creaking of contracting furniture would rouse me. I’d been dead to the world, and I can only assume that my mind or my body could simply sense that something was about to happen. I could feel a cold presence in the room that was more than the nocturnal drop in temperature. From the wardrobe walked a man carrying a pillow. The wardrobe doors remained closed.I breathed in sharply. In an instant, my entire body was overcome with fear. The back of my head remained pressed hard against the wall next to my bed; the rest of my body was like stone. I literally could not lift or even feel my arms or legs. I watched as he steadily made his way towards me. Even though he was in no hurry, it was a short distance from the wardrobe to my bed and I didn’t have time to take in a single detail about what he was wearing. All I saw was his calm, expressionless face in the dark.He stood over me and placed the pillow over my head, then lowered it. I don’t remember closing my eyes or even blinking, but in a moment, he was gone. I realised then that I was drenched in sweat. I can honestly say that if I’d walked into the shower in my pyjamas at that moment I wouldn’t have noticed any difference. The only thing I remember feeling as I lay there was the cold. It was so, so cold. Horribly, horribly cold. For long seconds I gasped and choked for breath. I don’t recall sleeping for the rest of that night. The sweat had dried against my body but there was still a lingering chill and even under the duvet I could not get warm. Maybe I did doze off at some point, maybe I was in and out of sleep for minutes at a time, but for much of it I was awake with terror. It was without any doubt the worst night’s sleep I have ever had in my life. As the first rays of sun came through my window I finally felt able to lift my heavy limbs and get out of bed. We were expected to remain in our rooms until called for breakfast, but lack of sleep had left me almost delirious. I couldn’t process rules or instructions at that point. I left my room and headed downstairs to the hotel foyer without even knowing what I would say if challenged. The only person in the foyer at this time was Mr. Baker. He was sitting in an armchair close to the fireplace, quietly reading to himself while Tosca lay contentedly at his feet. As I walked slowly down the stairs I was reassured by the simple tranquillity of this scene, the very colour of the fire already making me feel a little warmer and secure. Mr. Baker looked up from his book. His eyes met my own, which I’m sure were now red with insomnia in heavy contrast to my pale and pasty skin. My awkward posture and clumsy, trembling movements were obvious indicators of my exhaustion. And then he said it. He actually said it.‘My God, lad. You look like you’ve seen a ghost’. I responded with nothing other than the obvious.‘I think I have’. The frailty in my voice came as little surprise to me, but Mr. Baker’s face was suddenly one of concern. He put down his book, rose to his feet and walked towards me. He placed his hand on my forehead, then put the same hand on my shoulder and calmly said ‘It’s alright, lad. Come on. Come with me’. As he led me into the kitchen, his gentle manner and soothing tone honestly made me want to throw my arms around his reassuring bulk, not only for comfort but to keep myself upright. Tosca followed, wagging her tail. Once there, I saw that the kitchen staff were busy taking in a delivery at the double doors at the other end and prepping the area to start breakfast. They didn’t seem to notice us walk in as Mr. Baker pulled up a stool for me to sit on, then filled a kettle at one of the sinks and placed it on a hob. I wondered for a second if someone might say something about a dog being in the kitchen, but no-one did. The heat radiating from the nearby ovens finally put a complete stop to my shivering.‘What’s your name, lad?’ ‘Graham Milner’ I replied. ‘Right, Graham. I’ll make us both a brew and you can tell me all about it’. I sat in silence as the kettle boiled and Mr. Baker got out two cups and asked if I wanted milk and sugar. He put my drink on the work surface next to me and then sat opposite me without saying a word. It was obvious he was going to let me talk at my own pace with no pressure or judgment, and feeling safe in his company, I told him what I’d seen. As I spoke, he didn’t once interrupt me or stop me to clarify anything or to ask any questions. He just listened intently until I’d finished. Tosca sat by him the entire time, also appearing to listen intently. In the brief silence that followed, I sipped my tea and wondered if he believed me, if he thought I was lying or if he thought I genuinely believed what I was saying but it had been merely a dream or hallucination. A small part of me even considered – perhaps even hoped – that as the head caretaker, he might also have seen the ghost himself at some point.‘What room was this, Graham? Did the other lad in your room not see anything?’ ‘I’ve got a room to myself, sir. In the middle of the corridor’. ‘Oh… Right…’ I noticed how that piece of information had led to a slight change in the tone of his voice. I was sure he was going to say more, but at that point we heard the other boys and the teachers making their way downstairs. As they started filing into the kitchen, all washed and dressed while I sat there in my pyjamas probably still looking utterly wretched, Mr. Baker went to speak to Mr. Clark, who was still dragging one foot from the previous day. I couldn’t hear what they were discussing but I could see their concerned expressions. The two of them came over to speak to me, and Mr. Clark spoke first.‘Are you alright, Graham? Mr. Baker has told me about what you think you saw last night. Are you feeling up to walking this morning?’ It was obvious that he wasn’t going to indulge the idea of a ghost – perhaps because he didn’t want to frighten the other boys or because he just didn’t believe it – but he seemed genuinely worried about my obvious lack of sleep, whatever the cause might have been.‘I think I’m alright, sir. I think I’ll be OK to go walking’. ‘Fair enough. If you’re sure. It’s just that I’m staying here today to rest my ankle. Mr. Ross and Mr. Phillipson are taking the group out. If you do decide you’d rather stay here, it’s an option. Why don’t you go get dressed, have some breakfast and we’ll see how you feel then?’ I nodded in response. Mr. Clark now looked at Mr. Baker. ‘Mr. Baker, would you mind taking Graham back to his room so he can get himself sorted?’ Mr. Baker also nodded. ‘And is there another room available where he might be able to sleep for the remainder of the week?’ ‘I’m sure there is. I’ll see what I can do, sir’ Mr. Baker replied. He once more placed his hand gently on my shoulder and said ‘Come on lad, follow me. It’ll be right’. As we left the dining room, I could feel the eyes of the other boys on me. I presume one of them had heard Mr. Baker speaking to Mr. Clark, and I was clearly the main topic of discussion over breakfast that morning. Even with the teachers putting a firm but polite stop to any nonsense and the conversations being held in hushed tones, I was sure I could already hear the word ‘ghost’ being passed around. We took the stairs from the foyer to the second floor corridor. Even with Mr. Baker’s solid and dependable support I felt uneasy making my way toward my room. ‘This hotel is over 200 years old, so you never know what’s hiding. I find out new things about it every other week’. ‘How long have you been the caretaker, Mr. Baker?’ ‘Just over 10 years lad, but I was the gardener before that, and when I was your age I helped out in the kitchen, washing dishes, mopping the floor – stuff like that. Been here over 25 years now’. I took a deep breath as Mr. Baker turned the door handle and opened the door for me to enter. The room was exactly as I’d left it. Mr. Baker asked if he could come in for two minutes before I got changed and I was surprised by an adult asking my permission for anything, but I granted it. He made his way over to the wardrobe, opening its doors and checking the interior. ‘Ah, now. When you said you had this room, I did wonder…’ I stood there watching him, curious. He closed the wardrobe doors, placed his fingers deftly around the back of it and moved it just a few inches to the left. ‘Yes, there we are…’ he finished. I didn’t know what he’d seen, or if I was expected to appreciate something. He ran his fingers against the section of wall where the wardrobe had been. ‘Come here, Graham. Feel this’. Hesitantly, I walked to where he was standing and let him take my wrist. He placed my hand on the wall and with my fingertips I could feel a slight but noticeable groove beneath the wallpaper, running up the entire side of where the wardrobe had been. I had no idea what he was showing me and I think he realised that. ‘There used to be an adjoining door here. This room was connected to the one next door. Obviously bricked up now, but what you can feel there is where the old frame was set’. I was fascinated. ‘Whatever you saw last night might’ve come through there at an earlier time, back when it was alive. You said it was holding a pillow?’ I couldn’t believe it. Mr. Baker believed me. ‘Yes sir’. ‘And he placed it over your head?’ I noted that ‘it’ had now become ‘he’. ‘Yes sir’. ‘I’m guessing something bad happened in here, once’. The matter-of-fact tone in which he delivered this did not in any way reassure me, and Mr. Baker was sensitive to this. ‘Right, lad. I’ll wait outside while you get dressed. Once you’ve done, pack up your stuff and I’ll move you to another room down on the first floor. We’re not having you spending another night in here’. He did so, and I did as I was asked. As I knew he was right outside, I didn’t panic or hurry as I washed, brushed my teeth and dressed. I packed my things and followed him downstairs to an empty single room. He told me it was a staff bedroom, but as they were not fully staffed due to the forthcoming closure it was empty and would be mine now for the rest of the stay. For extra reassurance, he told me that his own room was at the other end of the corridor and he’d be available at any time, day or night. I made my way downstairs to join the other boys who had by now finished eating and were putting on their walking boots and thick coats. Now suddenly ravenous, I wolfed down a huge breakfast of toast, eggs, beans and sausages. I found myself revitalised, and it wasn’t just the copious amount of food – it was also Mr. Baker’s understanding and the knowledge that I wouldn’t be spending another night in that bedroom. With all the boys now ready, Mr. Ross asked me if I was still joining them for today’s walk and between a mouthful of food I said I definitely was. He seemed pleased but told me to slow down and that eating shouldn’t be a race. I did as I was told, finished my meal and went to put my walking boots on before joining the rest of the boys who had been chatting amongst themselves while waiting patiently. Mr. Clark waved us off and then sat himself down in the foyer where I’d earlier encountered Mr. Baker, who was now outside tending to the grounds. Tosca had not gone with him; instead she once again occupied her place by the fire, this time in front of Mr. Clark’s feet.The other boys were full of questions as we once again made our way out into the fog. Our two teachers quickly silenced their relentless barrage, but for the rest of that day my classmates would seize upon any opportunity to ask me about what I’d seen or what I thought I’d seen. Some were fascinated, some were cynical, but every single one of them had an opinion and most asked for more details, answers to questions I didn’t have because it had all happened so quickly. Just as Mr. Baker had implied a murder must have taken place in that bedroom at some point, so the boys concluded the same thing from the information I’d provided. I was tired and somewhat distracted by their endless questions and comments, so it was only much, much later that week when I remembered one of them had clearly said ‘I wonder who the victim was’, and another had added ‘Maybe her ghost is up there as well.’ Why he had assumed the victim was female I do not know, but as I said, I didn’t even consider either of these comments until several days later. We’d be going home later that evening. Mr. Milner paused. One of the girls in the class raised her hand to speak and he nodded, motioning for her to ask her question. ‘I thought you said you were there for five days, sir?’ ‘We were supposed to be’. We were left dumbfounded. Presumably, the story wasn’t over yet. ‘What happened next?’ asked one of the boys. Normally this would have been followed by a reprimand for not raising his hand before speaking, but as the room remained perfectly orderly, Mr. Milner continued. ‘I was out walking with my year group for the rest of that day. This time we went up and around Win Hill. It was another long, tiring but fun walk. I remember the sandwiches that day being terrible – some sort of foul-tasting meat paste, not like the thick cuts of ham we’d had the day before. Most of us barely touched them so we were starving when we got back to the hotel.’ He paused again. I can’t speak for the rest of the class, but at that stage I was so fully engaged in his story that even though it was mid-July, I shivered slightly as if I’d been outside with him in that February fog. ‘When we got back, Mr. Clark immediately spoke to the other two teachers, Mr. Ross and Mr. Phillipson. We had no idea what about, but after our evening meal we were called into one of the conference rooms and Mr. Clark told us that we were to pack our bags and that we were heading home. Our parents had already been notified and would be refunded for the remaining days they’d paid for’. ‘Did he tell you all why?’ asked the same boy. This time, Mr. Milner did reprimand him, politely but firmly. ‘Remember to raise your hand before speaking. And yes, he did tell us why.’ We all looked briefly amongst ourselves in bewilderment before returning our gaze to Mr. Milner. He continued with the next part of his story. After we’d left to go walking, Mr. Clark took off his left shoe and sock so he could look at his ankle. The swelling had subsided but there was now a nasty stretch of black and blue just above his heel. He rubbed at it pointlessly before putting his sock back on, but not his shoe. Tosca’s ears had pricked up in curiosity and Mr. Clark now patted her on the head, both of them enjoying the fire. Yesterday’s newspaper sat on a side table nearby. It was probably to be his only distraction from the mundanity of the next few hours, so he was in no rush to start looking through it. He hoped that no-one had attempted the crossword as that was sure to keep him busier than whatever celebrity gossip had made the headline. He gave a deep sigh as he watched the dog sprawl out in front of the fire. It was going to be a long day. He heard footsteps coming from one of the floors above. It didn’t generate any immediate reaction. It had to be the housekeeping staff going about their duties and he certainly wasn’t going to entertain the notion that it was the ghost that I had claimed to have seen the previous night. He put his left shoe back on and was about to take a look at the newspaper when he remembered that due to the hotel closure next week, only a skeleton staff was available and rooms were being cleaned every other day – and the next cleaning day was tomorrow. He’d watched the handful of kitchen staff leave after wiping the tables down and they wouldn’t be returning until 4pm. That left only Mr. Baker, who he could see from the front window was outside pruning shrubs. ‘Bugger’. He said out loud to himself. It might be one of the boys. In his discomfort, he’d rushed the headcount that morning. He could be wrong – he still thought it was more likely to be a member of the hotel staff – but he’d better check anyway. He couldn’t have a confused youngster frantically wondering where everyone had gone, and besides, he had plenty of time to kill. As if pre-empting Mr. Clark’s movements, Tosca looked up from the mat. ‘Come on, girl’. Said Mr. Clark. ‘Keep me company’. He set off along the ground floor corridor, deliberately avoiding the first staircase. He was determined to take his time over this. He may as well check everywhere thoroughly and get at least some exercise. He moved with short, pained movements, with Tosca following. The ground floor was completely empty, and completely silent. Even Tosca’s soft padding feet were audible – and so were the footsteps coming from upstairs, both their rhythm and volume now becoming more erratic. He took the flight of stairs at the end of the corridor to the first floor, Tosca by now visibly delighted to be getting some attention and bounding ahead of him. The first floor was every bit as desolate. Before him lay a spotless corridor of flowered hexagonal wallpaper and burgundy carpet. Small paintings were hung intermittently. He started by knocking gently on the first few doors, trying each handle and discovering that, without exception, they were all locked. It seemed pointless trying them all – he could tell now that the footsteps were clearly coming from the second floor and he made his way toward the next staircase. From the floor above came a bang; a loud and angry-sounding stamp. At this, Mr. Baker stopped in his tracks. Tosca barked in response and Mr. Clark shushed her. He continued on his way to the staircase and heard another loud stamp, then another. Was one of the boys messing around? Had they heard him knocking on the doors on this floor and were they now making fun of whoever it was by stamping their feet in response?In mental connection with what I had told Mr. Baker, he shivered slightly. He tried to put it out of his mind – someone was definitely up there; an actual person, not some phantom. Maybe someone upstairs had dropped something? Maybe the renovations had already started and the banging was just hammering? But it didn’t sound like either of those things, and if renovations were to begin early they surely wouldn’t start on the only floor that was currently occupied. He was at the foot of the staircase now. He made his way up the first flight and turned. At the top of the next flight of stairs, to the left, was the opening to the second floor corridor.‘Hello?’ He shouted, disappointed at the weakness in his own voice. He was now genuinely nervous. The stamping, stamping, stamping footsteps were coming toward him. Any second now their source would be revealed. He almost couldn’t bear it – his heart was in his throat as he gripped the banister rail and turned to go back downstairs. But then, the stamping stopped. It sounded as if whoever it was had walked furiously right to the end of the corridor but now refused to move any further. Mr. Clark stood on the stairs looking upwards, not daring to move either up nor down. ‘Hello?’ He repeated, determined that his voice would be firmer this time. It was, but no response was forthcoming. Taking a deep breath, he slowly made his way up. It gave Tosca all the encouragement she needed. She bounded ahead of him, reached the top of the staircase, looked down the corridor and stopped dead in her tracks. And wet herself. ‘Tosca?’ uttered Mr. Clark, all confidence now drained from his voice. ‘Tosca?’, he tried again.The dog didn’t hear him; couldn’t hear him. Her eyes remained fixed on whatever was on the corridor, her ragged breathing interspersed with a low whining. ‘Tosca!’ He gasped hopelessly. It was a command this time, but the dog remained frozen where it stood. His own breathing was frenzied now. What the hell was the dog looking at? He didn’t want to find out. In one deft movement, he strode to the top of the stairs with his back to the wall, stepping out with his back to whatever Tosca’s eyes were fixed upon, refusing to turn and face it. He grabbed the dog by its collar before running down the stairs. Yes, he ran – despite the pain in his ankle, he ran. For that second he’d set foot into the mouth of the corridor, he knew that whatever had been there was standing right behind him. He had felt its freezing, necrotic breath against the back of his neck. As he ran, dragging the dog’s limp body effortlessly in his fear-induced state of adrenaline, he heard laughter from above. Dreadful, dreadful laughter – the unmistakeable sound of a woman’s voice. Once again, silence reigned supreme. Mr. Milner sat at his desk looking quietly at the floor, his usually vibrant persona now sedate yet dignified. He looked up as if inviting questions, and as I was aware that the lesson would soon end I slowly raised my hand. He granted permission with a nod in my direction. ‘Did you find out anything about the ghosts? About why the place was haunted?’ I realised immediately after asking that I’d accepted everything he’d said without question. Mr. Milner had told his story with such conviction that I didn’t even consider it might be a child’s hallucination, a massive exaggeration of events or even a complete work of fiction in its entirety. ‘Yes, I did’, he began. ‘I found out much later that there’d been a murder at the hotel many, many years before. The caretaker at the time had smothered his wife with a pillow. They’d had a bitter argument in the foyer and he’d turned violent, so she ran to one of the upstairs rooms and locked herself inside. He had accessed the room via the adjoining door which had since been bricked over. It was his ghost I must have seen, and I assume Mr. Clark encountered the ghost of his wife’. The girl sitting directly behind me raised her hand. With the sound of the bell imminent it was to be the last question. Mr. Milner looked at her and simply said ‘Yes?’ ‘What was the name of the hotel?’ Mr. Milner thought for a second and replied with a half-smile. ‘Ah, now that I’m not telling you’. The class burst into a disappointed chorus of ‘Oh, sir! Come on!’ Seconds later, the bell rang out and we were dismissed. I have never forgotten Mr. Milner’s ghost story and I’ve thought about it ever since, though I’ve never tried to find out the name of the hotel, nor the identity of the spirits that haunted it. I think part of me would rather not know – I loved his story so much that I don’t want to risk finding out that it might in fact be a complete work of fiction. I later qualified as a teacher myself and my first position was working at my old school. Mr. Milner had retired before I’d arrived. I have no idea where he is today or if he’s even still alive. For the five years I worked there I was based in the same classroom where he’d told us his story. Around every Halloween I would tell it to my own groups as a reward for good behaviour and attainment, and it never once failed to fascinate them. Now approaching my fifties, I believe it would be an absolute crime for his story to pass into obscurity, and transcribing it and making it freely available to all is my small way of paying tribute to a great teacher and great storyteller. I hope my memory of every detail is accurate, and I hope he would approve of my transcription. Credit: Steve Westerman Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.