Charles Halbern never planned to be a teacher.
When he was young, he dreamed of writing plays and telling stories on stage. He loved the way words could move people. His little sister, Emilia, always sat in the front row during his rehearsals. She was quiet and shy, but she believed in him more than anyone else.
Then, one terrible afternoon, everything changed.
Emilia stayed late at school to help a teacher. That was the day a student brought a gun to campus. No one knows why. The only thing that mattered was that Emilia was caught in the middle of it. She died before help even arrived.
Charles got the call while rehearsing a new play. He dropped everything. His hands shook. His voice disappeared. And when he saw Emilia in the casket, something inside him broke.
He stopped writing. He stopped dreaming.
All he could think about was the noise, the screaming, the chaos, the disorder. He blamed it all: the school, the teachers, the laughing students who ignored the rules. If things had been quieter... more controlled... maybe his sister would still be alive.
So, Charles made a decision.
He would become a teacher — not to inspire, but to discipline.
He took the job seriously. He dressed properly, never raised his voice, and followed every rule. He believed silence kept students safe. That's when students started calling him Mr. Chalk, because he always wrote rules and punishments on the chalkboard.
No one ever saw him smile.
Eventually, he was sent to teach in Classroom 3-B — the rowdiest room in the entire school. Kids talked back. Laughed during lessons. Doodled on desks. Mr. Chalk didn't yell at them. He just kept writing his rules on the board:
"I will not speak when it is not my turn."
He gave out detention often. And one day, a group of students had to stay after school with him. At first, they joked around like always. One student even wiped off the sentence he had just written.
That was the last straw.
Mr. Chalk didn't get mad. He didn't say a word.
He simply walked to the board and started writing the line again.
I will not speak when it is not my turn.
I will not speak when it is not my turn.
I will not speak…
He wrote it over and over, faster and harder. The chalk snapped in his hand, but he kept going. His fingers started bleeding, leaving red smears on the board.
The students grew quiet. Then scared. The door wouldn't open. The windows fogged. It felt like the air itself was holding its breath.
Then, right in front of them, Mr. Chalk collapsed. He hit the board hard, his body leaving a smear across the final, unfinished line.
"I will not speak when it is not my—"
They said it was a heart attack.
But after that, weird things started happening in Classroom 3-B.
….
People say you can still hear chalk scraping the board when no one's there.
If a student speaks during after-school hours, words begin to appear on the blackboard — creepy sentences or questions, written in handwriting no one recognizes.
And if you respond to the writing — by speaking to it, laughing while looking at it, or even telling a teacher about it — you've made a "response." Do it three times… and Mr. Chalk shows up behind you.
He doesn't yell.
He doesn't hit.
He simply erases your mouth — just like wiping words off a chalkboard.
And you die instantly.
Your final breath becomes the next cursed sentence on the board.
…
Now he waits... every night... for someone to break the silence again.