The Laughing Locker

The first rule of middle school is: **Don’t try too hard.** The second rule is: **If something smells weird, *don’t* ask.** And the third rule? **Don’t open Locker 108.** But me? I broke all three on my first day. Let me set the scene: New kid. New school. New haircut that made me look like someone who got stuck halfway through a shampoo commercial and gave up. That’s me—**Derek Carson**, age 13, armed with one backpack, zero friends, and the irresistible instinct to defuse awkwardness with bad jokes. (That’s what my mom calls my “coping mechanism.” That’s what I call “not crying in public.” Tomato-tomahto.) Anyway. Elmridge Middle was your standard suburban educational prison: Beige walls, weird smell, and teachers who smiled like they’d been warned about you. I was assigned **Locker 108**. The janitor literally *paused* mid-floor mopping when he heard that. “You sure that’s your number, kid?” “Uh, yeah.” I showed him the slip. “108.” He squinted. “They never learn.” “What?” “Nothing. Good luck.” Then he whistled the *Jaws* theme as he walked away. I figured that was just small-town adult weirdness, like how your uncle always blames the microwave for the Wi-Fi being slow. But when I got to Locker 108… yeah, okay. **Weird** didn’t even cover it. It was cold to the touch. Like, fridge-cold. There were tiny scratch marks near the edges, like someone had tried to claw their way in—or out. And scrawled faintly across the metal in what looked like Sharpie and trauma: > **“BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU ASK FOR.”** I did what any rational, intelligent, cautious kid would do. I opened it. **Click.** The inside was completely empty. Except… not. Taped to the back wall was a piece of paper. Yellowed. Like someone had torn it from a diary in 1987. It read: > “I WISH I WAS FUNNY.” And I said out loud—**without thinking**— “Yeah. Me too.” The moment the words left my mouth, I heard something. **A giggle.** Not mine. Not close. Somewhere… *behind* the locker. I slammed it shut. Nothing happened. Yet. --- That day in class, something strange started happening. Every time I said *anything*—even dumb stuff like “I think I dropped my eraser”—people laughed. **Hard.** Like, “falling-out-of-their-chairs” hard. Even the teacher chuckled when I asked to go to the bathroom. By lunch, I was a legend. People I’d never met patted me on the back. “Dude, you’re hilarious!” “Say something else!” “You should have your own channel!” But it wasn’t me. Not really. I *wasn’t* trying to be funny anymore. The words just slipped out of my mouth. Like I was being… fed them. By sixth period, I was sweating. My jaw ached. And I couldn’t stop. Jokes. Quips. Punchlines. Every sentence came with a laugh track I couldn’t hear, but *they* could. And deep in my ears, under all the noise— I heard the *giggle* again. Closer. And this time… It was laughing *at me.* ---