School is the place we all have to go. There is potential. School is about the future. Looking forward to something, progression, growing, maturing. It’s supposed to be safe here, but it has become the opposite. It feels like a prison.

The door is at the end of the hall. I can go back to the car and hope Jake returns, or try to get back to the main road on foot. Maybe Jake is already back at the car, waiting for me. Either way, I can regroup in the car, figure something out.

I get past the main office and see something glimmer from the door. What? Is that a chain? It can’t be. That’s the door I just came in. It is. A metal chain on the door. And a lock.

Someone’s chained the door and locked it. From the inside.

I turn and look back down the hall. If I stop moving, there’s no sound. No sound in here. This is the same door I came in through. It was open. Now, he’s locked it. It has to be him. I don’t understand what’s happening.

“Who’s in here? Who’s here? Hey! Jake! Please!”

Silence. I don’t feel well. This isn’t right.

I let my forehead fall against the door’s glass. It’s cold. I close my eyes. I just want to be out of here, back at my apartment, in my bed. I should never have gone with Jake.

I look out the window. The black pickup is still there. Where is he? “Jake!”

I run back down the hall, my shoes squeaking, to the windows at the front of the school. No! It can’t be. The car is gone. Jake’s car isn’t there. I don’t understand. He wouldn’t have left me here, not Jake. I turn away and run back down the same hall, back past the lockers to the door I came in, the door that’s now chained.

“Who’s here? Hey! What do you want?”

I see it. There’s a piece of paper. It’s stuck in one of the loops of the metal chain. A small, folded piece of paper. I take it, unfold it. My hands are shaking. A single line of messy handwriting:

There are more than 1,000,000 violent crimes in America every year. But what happens in this school?

I drop the paper and step away from it. A surge of deep fear and panic runs through me. He’s done something to Jake. And now he’s after me. I need to get away from this place. I have to stop yelling. I need to hide. I shouldn’t be yelling or making noise. He’ll know I’m right here, know where I am. Can he see me right now?

I need to find somewhere else to go. Not out in this open hall. A room, a desk to hide under.

I hear something. Steps. Slow. Rubber boots on the floor. The sound’s coming from the other hall. I need to hide. Now.

I run away from the steps, left down the hall. I go through a set of double doors into a large room with glowing vending machines at the back and long tables, a cafeteria. There’s a stage at the front of the room. There’s a single door at the far side. I run past the tables and through the door.

It opens into a stairwell. I need to keep going, farther away. My only option is to go up. I need to be quiet as I climb, but there’s an echo. I’m not sure if he’s following. I stop halfway up the stairs and listen. I can’t hear anything. There are no windows in this stairwell. I can still smell that same smell, the chemical scent. It’s even stronger in here. My head hurts.

Once I reach the landing, I’m sweating more. It’s pouring off me. I unzip my jacket. There’s a door to my right, or I can climb the stairs to a third floor. I try the door. It’s unlocked, and I go through. The door closes behind me.

Another hall of lockers and classrooms. There’s a water fountain directly to my left. I didn’t realize how thirsty I am. I bend down and take a sip. I splash some water onto my face and some around to the back of my neck. I’m out of breath. The hall up here looks very much like the one downstairs. These halls, this school, it’s all just a big maze. A trap.

Music starts playing through the PA system.

It’s not very loud. An old country song. I know it. “Hey, Good Lookin’.” The same song that radio station was playing in the car when Jake and I were driving to the farm. The same one.

There’s a long bench at the side of the hall. I get down on my knees and half lie, half crouch behind it, on my side. I’m mostly hidden here. The floor is hard. I can see if anyone comes through the door. I’m watching the door. The song plays through until the end. There is a second or two break, and then it starts up again from the beginning. I try to cover my ears but can still hear it, the same song. I’m trying, but I can’t hold it in any longer. I start to cry.

BEFORE RIGHT NOW, BEFORE THIS, before tonight, when anyone asked me about the scariest thing that ever happened to me, I told them the same story. I told them about Ms. Veal. Most people I tell don’t find this story scary. They seem bored, almost disappointed when I get to the end. My story is not like a movie, I’ll say. It’s not heart-stopping or intense or bloodcurdling or graphic or violent. No jump scares. To me, these qualities aren’t usually scary. Something that disorients, that unsettles what’s taken for granted, something that disturbs and disrupts reality—that’s scary.

Maybe the Ms. Veal incident isn’t scary to others because it lacks drama. It’s just life. But to me, that’s why it was scary. It still is.

I didn’t want to go and live with Ms. Veal.

The first time I met Ms. Veal was in my kitchen. I was seven. I’d been hearing her name for years. I knew she called my mom a lot. She called my mom to tell her all the bad things that had been happening to her. Mom would always listen. It wasn’t like Mom didn’t have her own issues. And these calls would go on for hours at a time.

Sometimes I’d answer when she called, and as soon as I heard her voice, I felt uneasy. Sometimes I would try to listen after my mom picked up another phone, but always within a few seconds she would say, “Yes, okay. I’ve got it, you can hang up now.”

Ms. Veal had a cast on her right hand. I remember Mom saying there was always something wrong with Ms. Veal, a tensor bandage on her wrist or a brace on her knee. Her face was the way I’d pictured her voice on the phone—sharp and old. She had curly reddish-brown hair.

She was over at our house because she was collecting our bacon fat. Mom used to keep our bacon fat in a container in the freezer. Ms. Veal made Yorkshire pudding with bacon fat but never cooked bacon herself. Every so often, Mom would meet her somewhere or go over to her house with the fat.

This one time, Mom invited Ms. Veal over. I was home sick from school and was sitting in the kitchen. Mom made tea; Ms. Veal brought her oatmeal cookies. The fat exchange took place, and then the two ladies sat and chatted over tea.

Ms. Veal never said hello to me or even looked at me. I was still in my pajamas. I had a fever. I was eating toast. I didn’t want to be sitting at the table with that woman. And then, Mom left the room. I can’t remember why; maybe she went to the bathroom. I was alone with her, that woman, Ms. Veal. I could barely move. Ms. Veal stopped what she was doing and looked at me.

“Are you good or are you bad?” she asked. She was playing with a strand of her hair, curling it around her finger. “If you give up, you’re bad.”

I didn’t know what she was talking about or what to say. No adult, especially one I didn’t know, had ever talked to me like that before.

“If you’re good, you can have a cookie. If you’re bad, then maybe you’ll have to come live with me instead of living here in this house with your parents.”

I was petrified. I couldn’t answer her question.

“You shouldn’t be so shy. You have to get over that.”

Her voice was just like it had been on the phone—whiny, high-pitched, and flat. There was nothing put on, nothing friendly or gentle about her. She glared at me.

I could barely talk to a stranger at the best of times. I didn’t like strangers and often felt humiliated when having to explain something or discuss even the smallest trivialities. I had trouble meeting people. I had a hard time making eye contact. I put my crust down on the plate and looked past her.

“Good,” I said after a while. I felt my face blush. I didn’t understand why she asked me this, and it scared me. I would get hot when I was scared or nervous. How does a person know if they are good or bad? I didn’t want a cookie.

“And what am I? What does your mom tell you about me? What does she say about me?”

She smiled in a way I’d never seen before. It stretched across her face like a wound. Her fingers were shiny and greasy from handling the fat jar.

When my mom came back into the room, Ms. Veal began transferring more fat from Mom’s jar to her own. She gave no indication that we’d been talking.

That night, Mom had food poisoning. She was up all night, vomiting, crying. I couldn’t sleep and heard the whole thing. It was her. It was Ms. Veal’s cookies that made Mom sick. I know it. Mom later said it was a fluke stomach issue, but I know the truth.