3, 6, 9, 12, 15, 18, 21, 24, 27..... thirty

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Weird-Suggestion-152 on 2024-11-18 16:57:30+00:00.

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When I was a kid, I experienced something so traumatic that my brain erased it from my memory. Completely. For years, it was just... gone.

At least, it was until one afternoon.

I was sitting on the couch with my son, watching random educational videos on YouTube. He’s six, full of energy, and obsessed with learning videos. He wants to know everything about everything. It was nice. Just the two of us hanging out, him curled up next to me, asking a million questions.

Then it came on. The upbeat jingle, and that cheerful, sing-songy voice. School House Rock. “Three is a magic number, yes, it is, it's a magic number, somewhere in the ancient mystic trinity, you get three as a magic number…”

My chest tightened immediately, like a fist had closed around my heart. I froze. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. That song, that melody, it reached deep into my brain and pulled out something I didn’t even know was there. The memories hit me like a freight train.

“Daddy?” My son’s voice was distant, muffled, like I was underwater. “You okay?”

I blinked and realized I was staring at the TV, my hand clenched so tightly around the arm of the couch that my knuckles were white. My son was looking up at me, his face scrunched in confusion.

“I... ” I started to say something, anything to brush it off, but my throat felt like sandpaper.

“Daddy?” he said again.

“I’m fine,” I lied, forcing my hand to let go of the couch. “I just... need to run to the bathroom.”

I stood up, nearly tripping over the coffee table as I made my way to the bathroom. My legs felt weak, my whole body trembling. I gripped the edge of the sink, trying to steady myself.

The song was still playing in the living room, that stupid, happy voice echoing in my head.

3, 6, 9,12, 15, 18, 21, 24, 27...30

It wasn’t just a song. It was the song. The one they played to calm us down.

When I was a child, I went to Crestwood Middle School. The school was large, but very old. It had poor insulation, making it freezing in the winter, and hot in the summer. No matter how much they tried to paint the place, it always looked outdated. The hallways echoed; the floors creaked. Hell, most of the faculty had been students there themselves as children.

The rules were strict, and the teachers didn’t mess around. Dress codes, assigned seats at lunch, even how we walked in the hallways was monitored. It felt like every corner of the school was under their watchful eyes, even when you couldn’t see them.

Most of the staff at Crestwood were all about rules and discipline. They acted like they were running a military academy instead of an elementary school. But my favorite teacher, Ms. Harper, was different.

 She was warm, playful, like she actually liked kids. While the other teachers scowled and barked orders, she’d crack jokes and smile. She wore colorful dresses that swished when she walked, and her room always smelled clean, unlike the rest of the school, which smelled more like old books, old wood, and mildew.

Everyone loved her. She was the one teacher who made me feel safe at that school. She’d ask about our hobbies, encourage me to draw or write stories, and even kept a stash of candy in her desk for when we did well on tests.

But despite the safety of Ms. Harper’s classroom, us kids couldn’t help but feel uneasy at Crestwood. Maybe it was just the age of the school, maybe it was the rules. Or maybe, it was the rumors. Every kid in the school had heard them. Stories about kids disappearing, about strange noises in the vents, about the principal supposedly eating kids who misbehaved. It all sounded ridiculous, but at Crestwood, the line between “weird” and “normal” was thinner than at most schools.

My best friend at the time was a kid named Alex. He was small for his age, with messy hair and a laugh that was contagious. We bonded over many things, Pokémon cards, PlayStation 2, but it was our shared obsession with urban legends that really fueled our friendship, and Crestwood was full of them. Whenever we heard a new one, we’d go off on “missions” to investigate them. Most of the time, it was harmless fun; investigating the “haunted” bathroom, or trying to sneak into the teachers’ lounge. But one day, we heard a new rumor. There was a hidden basement under the school.

Over the next couple weeks, Alex and I started asking around about the basement rumor to the 8th graders. According to the stories, it was where the teachers took “the bad kids.” No one knew what happened down there. Some said that is where Principal Johnson eats kids, some said its haunted, or there was some kind of monster that lived down there. But one thing was certain. The kids who’d gone missing over the years? Supposedly, that’s where they ended up.

Alex was obsessed with the idea. “We have to find it,” he told me one afternoon.

“I don’t know, man,” I said, kicking a rock across the cracked blacktop. “What if we get caught, or what if the rumors are true, and we go missing?”

He shot back, his eyes wide with excitement. “But what if we’re the ones who finally figure it out? We’d be legends!”

I wasn’t as enthusiastic as he was, but I went along with it anyway. It was hard to say no to Alex once he got an idea in his head. It didn’t hurt that he was my only friend.

That afternoon, after the final bell rang, we didn’t head straight home. Instead, we stayed behind, hiding in the bushes until the coast was clear.

“Okay,” Alex whispered, peeking out. “Now’s our chance.”

We slipped back into the building through a side door that never quite latched properly. The halls were silent. Just being in the school while it was empty was unsettling enough by itself.

“Where do we even start?” I whispered.

Alex pointed down the hallway toward the janitor’s closet. “Mark said it’s somewhere near there.” Mark was a 8th grader, the loud and obnoxious kind. I didn’t trust him, but Alex did.

We crept down the hall, our sneakers squeaking softly on the floor. The janitor’s closet was locked, as expected, but Alex had come prepared. He pulled an old, expired credit card from his pocket he had gotten from his parents and started fiddling with the door.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” I muttered, glancing nervously over my shoulder.

“Shut up and keep watch,” he hissed.

It only took him a few minutes to get the door open. I was about to congratulate him when I saw the look on his face.

“Uh... dude?”

I turned to see what he was looking at. Inside the closet, behind the rows of cleaning supplies and buckets, there was a small door.

Neither of us said anything for a moment.

“So... do we open it?” Alex asked, his voice trembling just a little.

I wanted to say no. Every instinct in my body was screaming at me to get out of there. But Alex was already reaching for the latch.

Alex pulled the door open, revealing a narrow, dark hallway.

“Whoa...” Alex said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The walls were old brick, and the floor was plain, cracked concrete. The only light came from the janitor’s closet, spilling weakly into the space. At the far end of the hallway was an olde wooden door with a padlock dangling from its latch.

“Okay, it’s locked. Let’s go,” I said, my voice shaky.

But Alex wasn’t listening. He was already going down the hallway.

“Alex!” I hissed, glancing over my shoulder toward the main hall. “Come on, man, this is stupid! We’re gonna get caught!”

“Nobody’s even here,” Alex said, his voice echoing slightly off the cold walls. “It’s fine. Just come on.”

I hesitated, my heart hammering in my chest. The silence in the school was oppressive, my heart was beating out of my chest, but I couldn’t leave Alex there alone. With a sigh, I went after him, the cold stale air of the hallway hitting me like a slap.

Alex stood at the far end of the hallway, staring at the padlocked door. He reached out and jiggled the lock.

“It’s old,” he said. “I bet we could break it.”

“Or,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “we could leave. Right now. This is crazy, Alex. We’ll get in so much trouble.”

Alex ignored me. He turned back toward the janitor’s closet and climbed up. For a split second, I felt relief, thinking he was giving up. Then I heard the scrape of metal.

“What are you doing?” I called out.

Alex came back into view, struggling to carry a red fire extinguisher. “If we can’t pick it, we’ll just smash it.”

“Are you serious?” I said, panic rising in my voice. “That’s gonna be so loud!”

“So what? Nobody’s here,” he said, grinning. “Relax, dude.”

Before I could argue, he hoisted the extinguisher and swung it at the padlock.

Clang!

The sound was deafening in the tiny hallway. I flinched, glancing up at the door, fully expecting someone to come storming in.

“Alex, stop!” I hissed. “We’re gonna get caught!”

But Alex just shook his head. “One more, and it’ll break.”

He raised the extinguisher again and brought it down with all his strength. The lock gave way, clattering to the ground.

“There,” Alex said triumphantly, dropping the fire extinguisher with a thud. “See? Told you it’d be fine.”

I wanted to scream at him, to beg him to leave, but he was already reaching for the handle.

“Alex-” I started, but it was too late. He pulled the door open.

Alex pulled the door open, and both of us leaned forward, holding our breath as we peered into whatever was on the other side.

Behind the door, there it was.

A set of old stone steps, worn smooth in the center, descend...

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