Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition
Chapter 1232 - 1232: Story 1232: Corpse in the Classroom

The classroom was wrong.

It wasn't the smell—though the stench of mildew and dried rot was overpowering. Nor was it the cold, unnatural stillness that hung in the air like invisible frost.

It was the desk.

One of them was occupied.

Lena froze in the doorway. The sunlight from the shattered window painted long, skeletal shadows across the tile. In the center of it all sat a figure—slumped, rigid, and disturbingly intact.

A corpse.

It wore a tattered school uniform, its hands folded neatly on the desk like a child waiting for roll call. The head was tilted back slightly, mouth agape in a frozen gasp. Its eyes, wide open, were cloudy but fixated on the chalkboard.

Someone—or something—had drawn smiling faces on all the desks except the one it sat at. That desk was scratched with words etched deeply into the wood:

"Still watching."

Lena approached slowly, her boots crunching on glass and broken pencils. The silence pressed in harder with every step, as if the very air were trying to stop her.

The corpse didn't move.

But when she stepped close enough to read the board, her breath hitched.

"WELCOME BACK, CLASS."

And below it, in fresh chalk: "Lena."

She hadn't told anyone her name. Not since her team died. Not since she'd gone solo. The voice in the last building—the one she silenced with the microphone—must have carried more than sound. It carried secrets.

As she turned to leave, the corpse moved.

A twitch—barely noticeable.

Then a shudder.

Then a wet, creaking sound as it stood up.

Its neck snapped unnaturally sideways. Arms dangling loosely, like a puppet waiting for strings.

Lena backed away, pulling the sharpened crowbar from her side. "Stay down," she muttered.

The corpse stepped over the desk.

A child's laughter echoed behind her.

She spun—no one there.

When she looked back, the classroom was full.

Each desk was now occupied. Dozens of dead children. Silent. Grinning.

Only the one corpse moved—slow, deliberate, as if playing a role it remembered from life.

It raised its hand.

Then pointed to the teacher's desk.

A thick, leather-bound book lay there—open. Not to a lesson. Not to homework.

To attendance.

Every name had been crossed out.

Except one: Lena Monroe.

The corpse stopped moving.

It stared.

And then, with a voice stitched from wind and rot, it whispered:

"Present."

The windows shattered inward. Chalk flew like shrapnel. Lena ducked, shielding her face.

When she looked up again, the classroom was empty.

No corpses.

No desks.

Just the book on the teacher's desk—closed now, with blood smeared across the cover.

And her name carved into the front:

"Student #13."

She didn't remember sitting down.

But when she finally stood again, Lena realized she'd been at a desk for minutes.

And a single chalk message now waited on the board:

"Don't be late tomorrow."