Speaker 1: My name is mister Halbrook, and I've been teaching for
more than fifteen years, long enough to know that kids
are kids no matter where you go, Noisy, rowdy, and
inventive in ways that adults forget how to be. But
last fall I moved north to a smaller district I
found myself in charge of a class where the children
weren't like any i'd taught before. They weren't bad by
any stretch, just different, wary. Perhaps they could scream their
lungs out over dodgeable one minute, then fall into eerie
silence the next. It was during one of those silences
that I noticed their game. At first, I thought it
was just a variation on tag, was some regional playground
chant like Duck Duck goose. They formed a loose circle,
walking slowly around a chosen child and beg and chanting.
It was n't a rhyme, I recognized, just the cadence
of names all the while the one in the middle baited, teased,
tricked the others into speaking their own name, and whoever
slipped became it. That much I could follow the rules
weren't the strange part. What unsettled me was how serious
they treated it. The game always began the same way.
Voices hushed, steps measured a kind of nervous reverence. The
playground could be roaring with sounds, and still when that
circle formed, the noise dimmed, as if some unspoken boundary
had dropped around them and whoever was chosen as it
never looked like they were playing. They didn't laugh or
roll their eyes or chase after friends. They slumped shoulders, heavy,
eyes downcast. More than once I saw tears. I told
myself it was just part of the act, a way
of making the role less desirable. Kids invent these things,
loser rules, penalties, all to add steaks still and left
a sour taste in my mouth. Sometimes they tried it
on me. Come on, what's your first name, mister Halbrook?
They'd sing song, grinning as though they might trick me.
Just your first name, just once. But I'd been around
long enough to keep that line firm. Teachers who gave
away too much too quickly always regretted it, so I'd smile,
shake my head and repeat the rule I carried my
whole career. I'm mister Halbrook to you, nothing more. The
attempts never went any ere. They'd shrug laugh it off,
and returned to their circle, whispering among themselves. I might
have ignored it altogether if it weren't for what happened
that Tuesday. It had been a difficult week, already gray skies,
restless kids, and too much pent up energy. During recess,
I spotted them forming the circle again. This time the
child in the center was Noah, a boy I knew well.
He'd been having trouble at home, frequent absences, a father
in and out of the picture, a mother working two
jobs to keep the lights on. I'd spent extra time
with him in class, coaxing him into reading out loud,
praising every small victory, and now here he was it.
The other kids circled him, voices low and insistent. Noah's
head hung, his hands knotted into fists. He wasn't just sulking.
I could see it in his face, the pale tightness
round his mouth, the tremor in his shoulders. He looked hollow,
like some one had scooped out his inside and left
him with nothing but fear. My god clenched. I'd seen
plenty of kids pout over losing games, but this wasn't pouting.
It was despair, and when I took a step closer,
I swore I saw his lips moving, whispering something under
his breath, not to the others or to himself, to
something else. It all looked too much. When the bell rang,
I caught Noah before he could slip back into the
tide of students. He dragged his feet, shoulder a slunt,
trying to avoid my eye. Walk with me, I said,
steering him toward the bench by the fence. He sat reluctantly,
clutching the straps of his backpack like a shield. You
seemed upset out there, I began gently. The game it
didn't look fun to you, no I hunched further, eyes
fixed on the gravel. It's just a game. Doesn't have
to be, I said. If the other kids are giving
you trouble, I can step in. No one should have
to make you feel like that. That got a flicker.
His eyes started up, then away again. You don't understand,
then help me. I can't fix what I don't know.
Silence stretched between us. I waited. Years and classrooms had
taught me patience, but also the look of a kid
holding back something important. Finally, he shook his head. It's
not trouble. It's the rules. What rules. He pressed his
lips tighter. When I leaned forward, he whispered, almost inaudible,
we can't tell if we tell you join the game.
I frowned. You can tell me. I won't let the
others know. No answer. He hunched lower, curling into himself.
His face looked older than ten years, should, drawn and wary.
It was like I was talking to someone who had
already seen too much. I tried another angle. Noah, you're
a smart kid. You know games are supposed to be fun,
but when you play this one, you look like you're
carrying the world on your back. That's not fun. That's
I stopped myself before saying something wrong. That's heavy, and
I don't like seeing you sad. He shook his head again.
You can't help. Something in his tone hit me harder
than I expected, a resignation no child should carry. For
the rest of the morning, I couldn't shake it. I
kept glancing at him while teaching fractions, watching his pencil
move half heartedly across the page, his eyes clouded with
something I couldn't name. At lunch, I tried again, this
time with a whole class. I leaned against the edge
of my desk while they opened lunch boxes and chattered.
So I said, casually, that game you all like to play?
The name one? What's it about? Silence spread across the
class room like inking water. Conversations died mid sentence. Even
the kids who are usually loudest, stared down at their food.
It's just a game, one muttered, looks a little more
serious than that. No one answered. I scanned the faces, tense,
every one of them avoiding my eyes. Then a girl
at the back, brave or careless, spoke without looking up.
If you don't pass it on, it stays. The room
went rigid. A few kids hissed at her, shushing, She
stuffed a cracker into her mouth and refused to say more.
I raised my eyebrows, trying to make light of it.
Pass what on. The silence was total. I let it drop,
not wanting to spoon them further, for the words echoed
in my mind all afternoon. If you don't pass it on,
it stays. I found myself glancing at Noah again and again.
His face was pale, drawn, his movements sluggish. It wasn't
the look of a kid being teased. It was a
look of someone bearing something he couldn't put down. By
the final bell, my decision was made. I'd never joined
their games before, never blurred the line between mister Halbrook
and the children. But seeing Noah like that, knowing he
carried something he believed he couldn't share, it gnawed at me.
If joining their game gave me an angle to help
these kids, it was worth loosening up a bit. So
the next day at recess, when the circle formed and
the chanting began, I stepped closer. Noah's eyes widened when
I knelt beside him. Tell you what I said, softly,
how about I play? This time? The kids froze mid step,
their faces pale as snow. The circle went still, twenty
children frozen in place, eyes locked on me, as though
I'd broken some unspoken law. Teachers don't play. One of
the girls whispered, why not, I asked, keeping my tone gentle, playful,
seems like fun. Maybe I'll be better at it than
you think. Noah's lips parted, his face caught somewhere between
fear and hope. For the first time all week. His
shoulders seemed to ease. You can, he murmured, But you
have to do it right? And what's right? I asked.
His eyes flicked up to mine. You have to say
your full name. The words made the rest of the
circle flinch. One boy hissed through his teeth, shaking his head.
Another tugged at Noah's sleeve, urging him to stop, but
Noah was insistent, it doesn't count otherwise, I hesitated. Fifteen
years in classroom had taught me the power of boundaries.
My first name was one of them. I never given it,
not even when begged or teased. It was a line
between me and them, not to keep distance, but to
keep authority. I was mister Halbrook always. And yet Noah
was smiling, now, faintly, the first real smilelight seen from
him in weeks. A fragile thing, but real. What harm
could a name do? All right, I said, lowing my
voice so he could hear just this. Once I leaned
in whispered it my full name, John Halbrook. The change
was instant. The circle, which had been stiff and uncertain,
irrupted emotion. The children's voices rose in a sudden chant, name,
spilling into rhythm. They circled me. Face is pale, but
eyes fixed, the words tumbling over each other in a frenzy.
Noah staggered back, relief breaking across his face like dawn.
He let out a sharp, almost joyful laugh, before clapping
both hands over his mouth. The color returned to his cheeks,
his eyes bright again, as though the invisible weight had
slipped off his shoulders. They glanced at me, then at
each other, then at Noah. Then I realized this wasn't
the laughter of a shared joke. This was the laughter
of release. I'd taken something from him, something he was
glad to lose. By the time the bell rang, the
game was over. The children scattered, shoving lunch boxes into backpacks,
dashing toward the cafeteria. The chatter returned, loud and unbothered,
as though the past half hour had never happened. All
except Noah. He lingered, grinning sheepishly as he adjusted his straps.
Thanks mister Halbrook, he whispered, then darted off after the others.
For the rest of the afternoon, I rode that warmth.
He was lighter wright, He raised his hand twice during
reading group, and even volunteered to help collect papers. Seeing
him unburdened made the unease worth it. Maybe the game
really was just the strange playground ritual, and stepping into
it had given him the break he needed. Maybe that
night the doubts began. I was grading essays in the
quieter my apartment when I heard it first, faint, indistinct.
My pen paused mid Mark Hullbrock. I froze, listening, John Holbrock.
It came from the kitchen, No, not from through the way.
A draft moved through walls, whispered as though someone leaned
close behind my ear, but no breath, no body. I
stood hard, pounding checking every room, nothing locked, windows, bolted, door, silence.
Back at the desk, the papers were scattered, deliberately rearranged.
MY name was written across them in faint, uneven strokes,
lettered again and again by invisible hands. I gathered them
quickly and shoved them into a drawer. Sat in the dark,
pulse hammering from the corner of the room, just beyond
where the lamp light reached, came a whisper again, John Halbrook.
I didn't sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes,
I heard it, repeated, patient, endless, as though something had
finally learned what it needed. The whispers didn't stop, never loud,
just present, slipping through the cracks of my apartment at night,
curling under the hum of the refrigerator, murmuring from the
dark corners of the bedroom, always my full name, patient, relentless.
It wasn't violent, but it made everything feel wrong. At school,
it followed me interrupting my teachings on a semi regular basis.
The kids knew when I stumbled through rocal distracted. They
exchanged looks. Whispers darted between them like sparks. He's it now,
the Collector's on him. The relief in Noah's face cut
deeper than any accusation. He smiled in a way I'd
never seen him smile before. Full and unburdened, he was
light as air. That was when I understood the game
wasn't cruel, it wasn't bullying. It was survival, a ritual
not to entertain, but to pass on the way before
it hollowed them out, and now it was mine. By
the third day, the headaches began. They weren't normal, just
a constant pressure on the back of my skull, like
someone pressing a hand there and never letting go. Sleep
came in fragments, half an hour at a time, before
the whispers snapped me awake. In the classroom, I caught
myself muttering, not whole sentences, not lessons, just my own name,
over and over, lips moving soundlessly until I realized what
I was doing, And every time I slipped, the room
seemed to darken a fraction, as if something had leaned
closer to hear. The children noticed before I admitted it
to myself. At first they were delighted. I stumbled over
math drills, forgot spelling lists, let the schedule drift. My
faltering control meant longer recesses, free periods, games spilling into lessons.
The laughter rang down the halls, unburdened and wild. But
joy only lasts so long when it curdles against fear.
By the end of the week, my hands shook when
I tried to write on the board. My eyes burned
heavy with exhaustion, black crescents blooming beneath them. Once mid sentence,
I stopped cold, unable to remember what I just said.
The silence stretched until one boy nervously supplied the answer himself.
The laughter died. Now the whispers in the classroom weren't playful.
They were anxious. I'd look up from grading and find
twenty pairs of eyes watching me, wide and uncertain. Even Noah,
freed from his burden, avoided my gaze. Relief lingered in
his face. Yes, but guilt too. The smile he carried
dim to something smaller, tighter. He knew what I carried now.
By the time Friday came, I could barely hold the
chalk and leaned against the desk, the room spinning, words
stumbling from my mouth in fragments. The children sat frozen,
recess balls, untouched, pencils idle in their hands. They weren't
celebrating anymore. When the bell rang, they filed out, slowly,
whispering among themselves. I sat with my head in my hands,
trying not to mutter my own name out loud. That
was when I I noticed the folded scrap of paper
tucked beneath my notebook, small, careful handwriting in pencil. Don't
keep it too long, it hurts my chest tightened, No signature,
just the warning. By the second week, I started to
consider it. The thought crept in. During roll call. I
read the names in order, Carter, Diar, s, Shuang, each
child answering here without hesitation. But what if I pushed harder.
I imagine pausing over a student's name, pretending to mispronounce it,
then frowning until they corrected me, not just their first name,
but the whole thing, drawn out for clarity, their full name.
The game would recognize it. The collector would shift to them.
I pictured it agager and written work. I could hand
back papers, insisting on formality, read your name for me,
all of it at teacher's request. They wouldn't question it.
The burden would fall, just like it always did in
the game. The images made me sick, but they clung
to me anyway. But when I glanced up, I saw
their faces, not mischievous now or playful, concerned. I starting
to my shaking hands, my ash and skin the way
I stumbled through lessons. Their worry hit me harder than
the whispers ever could. I dropped the papers, voice rough
go on recess. They scattered too quickly, their relief obvious,
and in the sudden quiet, I heard a murmur at
the window, carried on no wind. A girl lingered, fiddling
with her sleeve. She didn't meet my eyes when she said,
you're not supposed to keep it. It's worse if you
do worse. How I asked, my voice cracking. She only
shook her head. We don't know. Nobody ever lasts this long.
That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The
whispers filled every shadow, pressing against my ears, my throat
the corners of the room. For the first time, I
thought of outsiders, another teacher, a clerk at the grocery store,
my sister, if I called her, any one, some one
who could take it, someone who wouldn't know how it worked.
But the thought collapsed in on itself almost as soon
as it formed. They didn't know the rules, they wouldn't
understand the game, wouldn't know how to pass it on.
When if they kept it for ever? What if they
broke under it? And worse, they'd know who had given
it to them. I pressed my palms into my eyes
until I saw sparks. My own whispering lips brushed the silence.
My name again and again, unbidden from the corner of
the room, the collector stirred. I couldn't see it, not directly,
but I felt it leaning closer. Listening, I clenched my
jaw against the truth. The longer I held it, the
more I knew I was treading into a place no
child had survived. It didn't take weeks for things to
get worse. Just days. The headaches deepened into nausea, my
hands trembling so badly I had to steady the chalk
with both. The kids stopped laughing at my mistakes. Their
eyes followed me now with a kind of fearful pity.
And then I began to see it. At first only
in the corners of my vision, something pale and bent,
watching from the far end of the hall. Each time
I turned, it was gone. A trick of exhaustion, I
told myself, nerves frayed too thin. But by Thursday and
no longer waited in the periphery. In the middle of
a spelling exercise, I glanced at the back of the
classroom and froze. It was standing between the last row
of desks, too tall, its shoulders rushing the ceiling, a
body too thin for its height, limbs bent at angles
that suggested too many joints. Where her face should have been,
was only a hollow, black and glistening, as if something
had hollered it out from within. The worst part wasn't
the sight. The worst part was that the children didn't react.
Their pencils scratched quietly on the page, as if nothing
loomed above them, as if I was the only one
who could see it. My throat closed. A sound tried
to climb out. My name whispered against my will, but
a bit down, so hard my teeth rattled. The figure
tilted its head, the void where its face should have been, rippling, stretching.
I staggered against the desk, Mister Halbrook. One of the
girls asked, voice tiny. The room had gone so island.
Twenty pencils stilled midward. Twenty faces turned toward me, wide
eyed and afraid, And in their silence, I thought, better
me than them, because if I can pass it on,
if one of these children slipped and saw what I
had just seen, it would carve them hollow. It would
break them. I couldn't do that, not to them. My
vision blurred. The classroom tilted. For one awful moment. I
thought I might crumple to the floor in front of them,
let it take me then and there. But the whispering
faded just enough for me to steady myself. I clutched
the edge of the desk and to my knuckles whitened.
The children didn't move. They knew what was happening, and
they knew I hadn't passed it on and spoke as
I gathered the chalk again, my hand shaking so hard
the word I wrote was illegible. And then in the
middle of the next sentence, everything went black, just for
a breath, a blink, but long enough that when I
opened my eyes, twenty children were staring at me in
perfect silence. They knew I was breaking. The classroom emptied
in a rush of coats and backpacks, the chatter fading
down the hall. I stared at my desk, staring at
the blank board, the chalk still trembling in my hand.
My body felt like wet paper, thin, tearing under its
own weight. I almost didn't notice her. The quiet girl,
small for her age, stood by the doorway, twisting the
strap of her bag. When I looked up, she met
my eyes with a steadiness that startled me. Not fear
or mischief, something older. You can't hold it forever, she said, softly.
The words froze me in place. Before I could respond,
she stepped into the room play with me. My stomach dropped, no,
my voice cracked harsher than I intended, absolutely not but
she didn't move. Her eyes stayed locked on mine. You'll
break you already are It's not supposed to stay with
one person this long. I shook my head, heat prickling
behind my eyes. You don't know what it's like, I whispered,
You don't know what I've seen. Her voice didn't waver.
I know enough, We all do. The silence between us stretched.
I thought of Noah's relief, the way his shoulders had
lifted the instant I joined the game. I thought of
the note slipped under my papers. Don't keep it too long.
It hurts, And I knew she was right. Still, the
thought of handing that weight back to a child tore
at me. I gripped the edge of the desk, fighting
the words, You're just a kid. She gave a small,
almost sad smile. So are all of us. We didn't
gather the whole class, just the two of us, a
small circle in the quiet of the empty room. She
stood across from me, hands clasped in front of her eyes, calm.
I tried to stall, to explain, to beg her not
to do it, but she only shook her head. This
is how it works, you know it. We all do
the champ began. I stumbled through it, my voice hoarse, broken.
She answered as the children always did, steady, unafraid, and
then she slipped. Deliberately. She said her own name aloud,
clear and sharp, eyes never leaving mine. The moment the
word left her mouth, I felt it. The weight vurnished,
the pressure in my skull, the whispers in the corners,
the sick dread that clung to me like damp clothes gone,
just gone. For the first time in weeks, I felt light, clear, alive.
My breath came free and easy. See my hands stilled
the silence, and the room was clean. I almost collapsed
with relief. She smiled, faintly, but sadness never leaving her face.
See better, my throat closed. You shouldn't have It's okay,
she interrupted. Her voice was calm, certain, we all take turns.
Before I could answer, the rest of the class had
gathered in the doorway, drawn back by instinct. They didn't
cheer or laugh. They simply surrounded her, solemn quiet, their
eyes filled with understanding that ran far too deep for
a children their age. I looked at her again. Her
shoulders had slumped. The same weight I carried was settling
onto her. See it in the way her smile trembled,
in the faint glassiness creeping into her eyes. The collector
was with her. Now. I didn't hear it, not any more,
but I knew the guilt hit me like a wave.
I wanted to take it back, to hold it forever,
if it meant she wouldn't have to see what I
had seen. But she only stood a little straighter, nodded once,
and whispered, It's lighter now for every one. By the
following week, the rhythm of the schoolyard had returned from
my classroom window. I watched them form their circle, feet
crunching in the gravel, voices rising in their strange chant.
The name slipped, laughter flared, and the burden shifted. The
game carried on as it always had, But I understood
now it wasn't cruel, it wasn't bullying. It was survival.
The collector was too heavy for one child to bear forever.
Passing it on wasn't meanness, but mercy. They had all
learned the rules to never hold on too long, to
never let it root too deeply. I walked among them
during recess. They scattered around me plain four square, trading cards,
skipping rope, but always in one corner of the yard.
The circle formed, always the chant rose, and sometimes I
saw it go wrong. The child held it too long,
their eyes dulled, their shoulders drooped, they slipped in, lessons
grew with drawn. The others pressed in, circling faster, trying
to make the exchange happen. But the child resisted, clung
to it out of fear or confusion. That was when
I stepped in. Their voices rose overlapping, tricking, teasing, and
I let myself falter. I let the words slip my
own name on my tongue, clear and deliberate. The chant
snap shot around me. The air seemed to shift, heavy
and sharp. I felt the weight settle back on my shoulders,
like a familiar cloak. The children watched, and they moved on.
As the circle broke apart, I stayed behind, shoulders bowed beneath,
in invisible weight, while the whispers returned. My name repeated
in the hush between heartbeats, settling into me once more,
and for the first time, I welcomed it.