School Lockdown drills are now as common as fire drills. I’m sure every school or county has their own style or individual protocol, but essentially, it’s the same across the board: everyone is to get into a classroom, lock the door, turn off the lights, group into a part of the room out of view from the windows and doors, and stay completely silent. The goal is to disappear from whatever hypothetical active shooter is roaming the hallways. Without these drills, well, the same thing would happen as when school shooters first started popping up: chaos, people fleeing in all directions, creating a frenzy of targets to choose from. And more people would die. More children would die.
I am – well, was – a counselor for an elementary school. My last position was my second, the first being in a hellhole for 2 years. That first elementary school was a mess, mostly because of the principal. He was old and tired, walking the halls with frazzled white hair and wrinkled button up shirts with no tie. It seemed he was over it all, counting down the days until his retirement. He showed little interest in my role, practically rolling his eyes at whatever issue brought a child to my door. He clearly had the whole “this generation is soft” mentality – kids aren’t depressed or anxious, they’re just whining. He handed out reprimands and punishments without any real investigations, and treated the staff poorly.
And he slacked on drills. I remembered being horrified on my first fire drill there, standing out in the playground in the near freezing autumn breeze, surrounded by cold and confused students as scattered and disorganized as staff tried to somehow get accountability. The staff and I tried to schedule more drills, tried to get him in on planning, but he could care less. Eventually he was relieved when teachers had enough and went to the board, but by then I lost motivation and needed a change.
Where I ended up next was refreshing. The principal – a tall and slim middle aged man with a square jaw and kind eyes, always wearing some version of a cartoon themed tie - and the staff here take their jobs rather seriously, almost to the point of me feeling too intimidated to share ideas during meetings when I first arrived. Fortunately, I loosened up over time, and when everyone saw how much I cared for the children, I was accepted. I loved it there.
I quit two months later.
The reason I quit is something I haven’t quit gotten over. I still dream about it. I still hear the sounds. The sounds that didn’t make sense as they were happening, but came together afterward into a horrific realization.
I had been making my rounds that day, checking on my more needy students during their classes, making sure no one was on the verge of a meltdown or anything. I remember feeling relieved to be walking around because I had been sitting in the nurse’s office with a 1st grader who ran and slipped on the slick floor the custodian was in the middle of mopping. Luckily there was nothing wrong with the child, but I advised the custodian to put up a “Caution Wet Floor” sign before we had a lawsuit on our hands. I was feeling good until…
“Lockdown! Lockdown, lockdown.” It was one of the office administrators over the loud speaker.
At first I was just surprised. Then my felt my heart jump and my fingertips turn icy as I realized the reason I was surprised: there was no drill scheduled that day.
Which meant this was not a drill.
When the announcement blared, I had just opened the door to peek into a kindergarten classroom. When the overhead speaker clicked, indicating the end of the announcement, my eyes met with the teacher’s, Mrs. Jamieson. We froze, staring at one another for a good 3 seconds, her standing with a pointer in one hand with her class all neatly seated on the carpet area. The students were silent, some looking at her, and some at me. Then she and I came to some kind of unspoken agreement. Training kicked in. We both sighed casually and smiled down at the kids.
Mrs. Jamieson said, “Well, kids, looks like we got a lockdown drill. Let’s show Ms. Vasquez how well we can do.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said as I closed the door and pulled down the curtain to the door’s tiny window. “I’d love to see how this class does during a lockdown drill. I might have some rewards if you do well.”
Then I remembered something. I said to the teacher “Janet, I’ll be right back,” before running out the room.
I had remembered the fourth graders were around the corner from where I was, outside their classrooms and scattered all around the hallway, putting up holiday decorations. I was afraid of the chaos that might ensue; kids pushing and shoving to get back to their own classrooms instead of just ducking into the nearest one, as was protocol.
Luckily it wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. Everyone was calm and well versed on what to do. I herded some lingering and confused kids into rooms and was about to run back to the kindergarten room when I spotted something out the corner of my eye. When I turned around, I couldn’t help but mutter, “Seriously?”
At the end of the hallway, sitting just outside the edge of sunlight that casted through the windows of the double-door exit nearby, was a 3rd grader. He was curled up, knees to chest, hood pulled over, but I knew who it was. Charlie. Probably doodling in his damn sketch book, listening to music even though electronic devices were banned. The school had warned him dozens of times, but he always manages to sneak his phone in. Honestly, I’ve spotted him a few times with the buds in his ears but let it go. Music and drawing were his thing, and he had it rough at home.
I ran over, pulled his hood back and yanked the earbuds out his ears. “Lockdown, sweetie. Come on.” I was tempted to sound more urgent, but I wanted to remain casual and not alarm him.
Charlie, like all students in that school, took lockdown drills seriously. His eyes widened and he jumped up. We ran over to the nearest room – the computer lab – and I used my key to let him in.
Then I hesitated. The right thing to do would be to go in with him. But I thought about Mrs. Janet Jamieson. She was young, her second year teaching, and her IA was out sick. I felt I had to help her manage those kids. There was no telling how long this lockdown would last, and she needed the help.
I closed the door, turned. I realized I was probably the last one still in the hallway. It was eerie, not having another soul in the hallway. It felt abandoned. No, hallow was the right word. It felt like a hallow, like a cave.
I heard footsteps. Rhythmic thuds on the linoleum floor. Boots? No, they were softer than that, although too heavy to be sneakers. Or maybe the person making them were big. It was not too far off.
I guess I should explain the layout. The school is only one story. From a bird’s eye view, the hallways carve out what looks like two cubes close stacked on top of each other, the top being where the entrance was. Those two cubes were fused together by the same middle hallway. I was at the far bottom of the bottom cube, close to the left corner. The footsteps sounded as if coming down the left side of the top cube, so that if I were to turn down that left corner, I’d end up far away yet face to face with whoever was there.
The main problem was that Janet Jamieson’s room was down that left side hallway. I took off my flats and tiptoed to the left corner. I was tempted to look, to just peek, but at the same time, was to scared the person would see me. The steps stopped, and I heard a hard rattling. He was trying a door. When it didn’t open, I heard him whisper something – probably cursing to himself – before continuing to walk. And it was a him, judging from that whisper. The voice was too deep to be a woman.
I don’t know why I waited there, listening to the footsteps coming my way. I suppose I wasn’t thinking clearly because I could have just went into the nearest room. Yet I had an anxious one-track mind of getting to Mrs. Jamieson’s room.
The man tried another locked door. Another hoarse whisper.
I thought, I could just sprint to the room, unlock the door, and rush in. No, he’d see me and that would only draw attention to Mrs. Jamieson room, thus endangering the children. Plus, what if I couldn’t get the key in and unlock the door in time before he ran up to me?
I took a backward step, preparing to turn and sprint to the right corner if he got too close, when I heard s shift in the echoing steps. I listened and realized he turned down the middle hallway.
I drew in a deep breath and exhaled shakily as I braved to peek around the corner. I was right. I saw no one and yet heard another door being tried, so he had to be down that middle hallway.
Then, to my surprise, Mrs. Jamieson’s door opened without a sound. I saw her face appear within the darkness of the room. Our eyes met, and she beckoned me.
I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t want to wait any longer and risk freezing up. I ran and made it in. As soon as I did, Janet carefully closed the door.
I saw all the kids clustered in the darkest corner of the room, sitting and staring expectantly at me.
“What are you doing?!” I whispered harshly to the kindergarten teacher. “You are not supposed to open the door during a lockdown!”
“Well you’re welcome.” She sighed. “I just had a bad feeling because you said you’d be back. Plus, after I heard the last door closed, I heard a couple of your steps – I assumed they were yours because they clicked like shoes – and just knew you were still out there.”
My shoulders slumped. I could no longer hide my relief. Or gratefulness. “Thank you, Janet.”
I saw her teeth show in the dark as she smiled. “No problem. Just help me keep the kids calm and -”
We heard a noise outside. It wasn’t close, but it was strange. Like a heavy thud.
“What’s that?” asked one of the kids.
We shushed him and listened.
Silence.
Nothing happened for the next 20 or so minutes. Janet and I handed out coloring books and crayons for the kids to color. We made sure everyone for every color. It sounds petty, but the last thing we needed was kids asking to borrow colors and start bickering over it.
One of the little girls didn’t color. She just stared at us with worrying and waiting eyes. She knew this wasn’t a drill. I sat down in one of the small chairs and I signaled her to come to me. She immediately ran over, sat in my lap, and buried her head into my shoulder. I put my arms around her and whispered reassuring words. The rest of the class noticed this, and unfortunately, it seemed to make them anxious.
Just then we heard footsteps. We all stiffened. The steps were coming our way. Janet and I met eyes. She was completely pale.
The footsteps seemed heavier, and less rhythmic. At one point there was some shuffling and some rubbing or dragging of clothes. The man must have stumbled and slid against the wall. Was he hurt? Then the steps resumed, getting closer still.
My eyes shot toward the door. The girl and I gripped each other hard with rigid bodies. We felt almost fused as one statue. There was ringing in my ears, and my eyes burned as I stared unblinkingly at the door knob.
Then BANG. It was as if someone threw their weight into the door. The kids screamed. Janet screamed. I almost did, but instead put the girl down and ran over to Janet and shook her by the shoulders. She stopped screaming and I pointed to the horrified children. At that moment intense weight seemed to come upon us. I felt everything fade away for a moment – the screaming, the darkness of the room, the single heavy knock against the door that followed after the bang – and within our gaze we came to a mutual declaration.
The kids. We both thought it. We had to keep them safe. That was all that mattered.
“The bookshelf,” she blurted.
I understood and nodded. In response I said “Use the blanket, OK?”
She nodded, also understanding. Then we separated. I ran to the bookshelf and began pushing. It was used to hold other supplies like containers of extra glue sticks and yarn, not books, so it was not as heavy as it could’ve been. But it was heavy.
“Shannon…?”
“I got it. I got it.” The shelf slide across the room, getting easier as I built momentum. The kids were still screaming, but had started to quiet down. I glanced over and saw Janet had already draped the ends of a large green blanket over the coat cubby and another bookshelf so it hung over everyone, like a makeshift tent. Good. It would give the kids a sense of feeling hidden. She heard Janet trying to talk them down.
By now the man was trying the doorknob and I heard a low grunt. I kept pushing and finally, with gritted teeth and every muscle in my body hard as rock, I made it. I turned the shelf the long way and rested it against the door. I turned my back to the shelf and leaned against it.
“Where’s Ms. Vasquez?” a child cried out. Then the other kids followed and began anxiously calling out to me.
“I’m here guys!” I tried to sound casual but my voice was shaking. “You guys are the fort and I’m the lookout.”
Janet said, “Yes, she’s the lookout. She’ll tell us if we are clear or in danger. Ms. Vazquez are we clear?”
“Oh yes, the danger was here but it passed. We’re all clear, kids.” As I said this, I prayed there wasn’t another thrash against the door.
There wasn’t. It all stopped. The doorknob stopped jiggling. Silence.
After a few minutes I slid down to sit on the floor, still leaning against the bookshelf. As the silence settled in, and I called out 5 “all clears” to the kids to offer consistent reassurance, my body began to slow settle. The moment that crash against the door happened, I felt amped up, light on my feet. Strong. In fact, I remembered when one of these bookshelves were being moved from one classroom to another. It took two custodians – grown men – to slide it along with a struggle. I had managed it alone. It was all adrenaline, and now with the kids calm enough to be singing softly along with Janet under the blanket, I was crashing. To top off my sense of ease, I saw flashing red and blue lights coming in through the window. It was over, and I felt sick. I even smelled copper in the air. I rubbed my nose to check for a nosebleed, but strangely saw nothing.
I looked at lights dancing across the ceiling. “Yay, guys” I called in the fakest peppy voice. “The policemen are here.”
They had seen the lights and were already cheering. I tried to say something else – I can’t remember what but it was probably to remind them they still had to remain quiet. Rather than words I let out a gut-tightening heave. Not much came out; just enough for me to spit.
I felt something. Since I was no longer sweating and my skin felt cold and clammy, I became aware of some warmth beneath me, like I was sitting in a puddle.
I frowned. I soiled myself, I thought. Great. I shifted to examine my jeans to see if it was urine or feces.
I saw darkness on the beige tile. I hesitantly touched it. It was too thick to be urine. And I didn’t smell anything. Or rather I didn’t smell any bodily waste. That coppery scent from earlier was stronger now. As I leaned away from the bookshelf, I saw the liquid hadn’t come from me, but from beneath the bookshelf. No, not the bookshelf. It came from under the door.
A stone dropped in my chest as I realized what the liquid was. It was blood. Blood had been oozing into the room. What the hell…?
Noise came from the hallway. The calm rumble of footsteps, deep voices in casual conversation, and chaotic static from walkie talkies: the police, and it didn’t sound like they were in a rush. We all heard them coming closer. Then they stopped walking. They stopped talking. We could only hear the only thing heard were the walkies. Why were they just standing there?
Then someone among them broke the silence with a “Holy shit” before a storm of urgent footsteps came and stopped right outside Janet Jamieson’s door.
Eventually the all clear was given to every class except ours. Janet and I didn’t protest or ask any questions. We were too confused. Too overwhelmed and worn out. We were at a point of absolute submission because we thought obedience would make things go faster and we can just all go home. I asked Janet for the blanket to cover myself and the pool under me before she turned the lights on and allowed the kids to stretch out. I whispered to her about the blood, and she only threw her head back and closed to eyes as if to say “What else?”
After an hour, the window gates were unlocked. Janet, the kids and I exited the class through the windows so we didn’t have to open the door and see whatever was happening. I looked stupidly at one of the officers after climbing out the window and said, “I have blood on me. It’s not mine.” I just said it. I felt I had to before they noticed it themselves.
The officer just nodded grimly, with no sign of surprise. Then he escorted Janet and I to sit at the open end of an ambulance to be examined. When the medics gave the thumbs up, two officers came over. At first, they just stood there, heads up but eyes staring at the ground.
Then they removed their hats and told us there was a dead body in front of Janet Jamieson’s classroom door.
What do you say to something like that? They paused, as if giving us room to react or respond. Janet and I just looked at one another. They looked at us. What did they want us to say?
As it turns out, they weren’t waiting for a reaction. They were giving moment to let that news sink in before they hit us with another. This time, we reacted. This time we jumped up, asking what they meant. Asking why, and how. We freaked. We acted like they told us the sky just fell.
The dead body was the principal.
The officers tried to calm us. When we were finally able to sit and listen, one of them offered to explain everything. Then they looked at one another, agreeing on something, before looking directly at me.
“We could show you what happened.” I tensed up. The other officer quickly added, “From the cameras, he means. You don’t have to see…him.”
Watch the recordings? It seemed the invitation was exclusively for me and Janet didn’t say anything. At the time, I didn’t understand, but looking back, I think everyone felt I had a right to see. I think they felt I deserved a clear story because I’m the one with someone else’s blood all over my pants.
I was taken inside the building into the main office. A man with a polo and jeans was seated at one of the administrator’s desk, computer ready. Waiting for me. With a nod from the officers that escorted me in, the man in the polo hit play.
There were 9 camera shots playing at once on the screen, three each row, all black and white. They all played pretty much the same thing at that moment – the beginning of the lockdown. Just kids through the halls, into classrooms. Each camera just showed incoherent blurs and shifting shades of gray. In less than a minute, the blurs disappeared and the hallway was bare. My attention was then drawn to two screens. One showed me, taking my shoes off and tiptoeing.
The other showed the principal walking down the left side hallway.
The principal stopped at a door and grabbed the door handle.
The officer next to me said, “The school was transitioning into having new doors, correct? New locks?”
We were. Our doors were old, and were being upgraded. Which meant new locks. Which meant new keys. At that point, less than half the rooms in the building had new doors, and not everyone had a key…
“He was checking the doors, making sure someone didn’t end up in a room they didn’t have a key to.”
Of course, I hadn’t known that. With a stiff body and wide eyes, I watched my past self on the screen, cowering, truly believing I was in danger.
The principal made the turn, and a moment later I was dashing to Janet’s room. I was gone. Now there was only the principal.
After checking a door, he seemed satisfied, like he all was finished. He leaned in to the door and seemed to speak before stepping back.
The hoarse whispering. It wasn’t cursing, it was him tell the people inside it was only him, and not to be afraid.
I saw the “Caution Wet Floor” sign was three feet away. I noticed it because something in my gut knew what was going to happen next: the principal slipped. He did a brief little shuffle, almost comedically, before his legs came out from under him. His head bounced off the floor. There was no audio, but I could hear the hollow thump. I could hear it then then in my head because I had heard it in real time. That heavy thud. The one from when we shushed the boy from asking what that noise was.
“Jesus, that was his head” I said aloud. No one answered.
The principal slowly stood, leaving a dark splatter behind on the floor. His legs were shaky legs. He looked left and right, seemingly confused. He held one hand to his head and began to walk back the way he came. He stumbled. His knees shook. By now darkness was dripping on the floor. Then he slowly sank to the ground, as if he was suddenly sleepy and needed a nap. Then he just lay there.
The man in the polo moved the computer mouse to slide the time bar to 22 minutes later. As if fast forwarded, a dark mass appeared and grew into a perfect circle around the principal’s head. The video resumed with the principal stirring. He stood and stepped back, seemingly horrified by the pool of darkness. He stepped around the puddle and walked. I squinted and saw he had dropped something. He rounded the corner, making his way to the closest room for help.
Janet’s room.
He wavered on rubbery legs. At one point, he leaned against the wall as he walked a few steps, sliding along with his shoulder, before pushing off and trying to balance again. He finally made it to Janet’s door and fell against it. We had screamed. He raised a fist and gave one strong pound before trying the knob. He patted his pockets, looked around, slumped his head, and tried the knob again.
The thing he had dropped. His keys.
I felt hot tears run down my cheeks as I watched him sink down to sit with his back against the door. His head drooped.
And that was it.
The man in the polo stopped the video but kept looking at the screen. I shook my head, feeling confused even though there was nothing to be confused about. I thought about where I had been at that point in the video. I had been sitting with my back against the bookcase. Which means he and I had been sitting back to back, just feet apart, while he slowly bled out and died. And I had sat his blood, the blood that dripped from his cracked head. The children sang softly as the darkness pooled and soaked into my pants.
And it was me. I had kept him out.
“No, I didn’t know!” I felt cold and afraid. I stepped back away from the officers. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”
The officer’s face dropped. “Wha…No. Ma’am, no, we aren’t blaming you. We just felt you should know…”
“Because I did it, right?” I was losing sense of reality. I couldn’t feel my legs and felt like I was somehow floating and sinking at the same time. “I’m going to jail! I should! Because I fucking kept him out!”
“Ma’am…”
“I shoved a goddamn bookcase against the door!”
The officer was shaking his head, reaching out to me.
I passed out.
I quit being a counselor. Actually, I just stopped showing up. It was Janet who was kind enough to speak to the school county administration. She managed to turn my unannounced permanent absence into an official resignation. No one argued. No one asked me to sign or do anything. No one bothered me because they all knew.
They all knew I let him die.
Janet said they all feel sorry for us, her and I. That they all sympathized with our situation. But I know that’s bullshit. I ripped up every Get Well card and popped every We Miss You balloon that got delivered. They’re all pretending. Acting as if I hadn’t let Daniel Seamore Hutchens – a married man with two children at home and 253 others at work –slip away in an empty hallway, alone.
I don’t call him by name. I prefer to remember him as the principal. It creates some distance, like we were only co-workers. Strictly professional. Not at all like he was the shoulder I cried on when I broke up with my boyfriend, or the man who went over the spending limit for me when we did the blind gift exchange for Christmas.
To top it off, we were never really in any danger. The police were called by a witness who claimed to see a man with a gun wandering the streets just a few blocks down, drunkenly harassing people. When the police arrived, the man was in fact very drunk and did have a gun. A brief standoff between he and the police went on for half an hour before the drunk gave up. And guess what? When the police examined the weapon, it turned out to be fake. It turned out to be a fucking paintball pistol.
But that doesn’t upset nearly as much as the thought that still haunts me: I could have just fucking looked. That’s all I can think. There were two instances where I could have just looked and saved everything. The first time, I could have just poked my head around that corner and saw the principal walking my way. Then I would have put my shoes back on, step out, and give him a wave. And he would approached me and passed right by that yellow Caution Wet Floor sign.
The other time I could have looked was when I gave the second “all clear” to Janet and the kids. I can deny it all I want. I can it on retrospect. But I had known. I had known at that moment something wasn’t right because I just then I realized we hadn’t heard any footsteps walking away from the door. So why the silence, I had thought briefly, if they were still there?
At that moment I thought about standing up, reaching across the bookshelf, and pushing the door window’s curtain aside to peek out into the hallway. If I had, I would have saw the blood trail leading to the door. Then I would have looked down to see the principal slumped over. I would have shoved the shelf aside, open the door, and used that stupid green tend blanket to apply pressure and stop the bleeding.
I would have done all that, but I didn’t. I didn’t because protocol said stay away from the windows and doors. And plus, I was just plain scared. I ignored my gut and hid behind procedure. I was a coward.
When I lay awake at night, I always hear a thump. What follows are the sounds of the principal walking and stumbling through my apartment. I can hear his feet on the linoleum even though I have carpet. I hear his shoulder brushing against the wall. Then I hear the heavy crash and knock on my closed bedroom door. I can almost see the knob jiggling.
At that point I always get up and frantically pull the bedroom door open. I do it every time.
And every single night, without fail, I collapse into tears when I see no one is there.
Author: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/988hl6/lock_down_at_my_elementary_school/
Image: http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/After_School
