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A janitor
Newark. Twenty twenty-five. October eighth.

The thing about schools is they’re mostly empty at night. Hallways echo. Lockers hum like beehives. You walk with your mop and bucket, hear your steps click, see yourself in every trophy case.

Two nights ago, I was mopping near the gym. Glass case full of old team photos. The boys in the 1990 shot had mullets, the girls all perms. I leaned in, just curious. And I swear one of the faces looked up.

Not blinked. Not moved with me. Looked up. Eyes followed me across the hall.

I dropped the mop. Water everywhere. I told myself reflections warp in old glass. Then I saw the same boy’s face in the door of the vending machine. He smiled. His teammates didn’t.

Last night, I brought a flashlight. Shined it straight into the glass. My reflection looked normal, tired, the way I do at midnight. Behind it, though—other faces. Faces I don’t have. Faces waiting.

I don’t tell the teachers. They’d laugh. Kids would dare each other to sneak in. And what then?

I’ve started keeping my eyes low. Mop, bucket, floor. Nothing else. But glass is everywhere. Windows, screens, even puddles. You can’t hide from what wants to see you.