September 26

It started with a sound. A low, metallic clang that echoed through Jefferson Middle School at precisely 8:07 a.m.—three minutes before first bell.

No one knew where it came from. It wasn’t the old mechanical class bell near the office, and it certainly wasn’t the fire alarm. This was something deeper, older. A sound that seemed to resonate not just through the hallways, but inside the walls… and sometimes, inside the students.

Mr. Vorelli, the Civics teacher, paused mid-sentence when he first heard it. His eyes lost focus, as if the sound pulled him inward. When the students asked what it was, he simply said, “An old tradition,” and went back to lecturing about the three branches of government.

But each day after that, the strange bell rang again—always at 8:07. And each day, one student would go… quiet. Not absent, exactly. They were still there. Still breathing. But their faces froze into a polite, mechanical smile. Their voices softened to the same monotone: “Absolutely. I understand.” Over and over. No matter the question. No matter the topic.

“Absolutely,” said Gwen, who’d once argued passionately about the Bill of Rights.
“Absolutely,” said Malik, who had written an essay criticizing the Electoral College.
“Absolutely,” said Jenny, who’d run for student council president on a platform of free speech.

Whatever they had believed before, whatever strong opinions they’d once shared—it was gone.

The rest of the students began to whisper about the bell. That if you heard it just right, in the moment before it faded, you’d feel something tugging at your spine. Some said it was the ghost of the original civics teacher, a war veteran who died in the 1950s after warning of creeping fascism in America. Others believed it was the school board’s doing—a forgotten disciplinary tool hidden in the infrastructure during the Cold War.

But Marcus knew better. He stayed after class one evening and snooped through Mr. Vorelli’s desk. He found a folder titled The Bell and the Will of the State. Inside were transcripts—typed transcripts—of student responses in class, all reduced to one word: “Absolutely.”

One page read:

Subject: Terrance Miles
Former Opinion: “Corporations aren’t people.”
Post-Bell Response: “Absolutely.”

On the final page, Marcus saw his own name:

Subject: Marcus Reed
Predicted Conversion: 9/27.

That was tomorrow.

Terrified, he ran to the library, poring over old civics textbooks until he found a forgotten phrase: “Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.” A phrase not taught anymore.

The next morning, Marcus came prepared.

When the bell rang at 8:07, and the cold echo tried to take hold of his thoughts, Marcus slammed his textbook shut and shouted, “The consent of the governed is not a spell you cast!” The room shook. Mr. Vorelli froze mid-step. The metal ceiling tiles buckled.

The sound died.

The students stirred—blinking, gasping, as if waking from a dream.

The bell has not rung since.

But in the school basement, behind a locked iron door marked Civics Records, Do Not Enter, something waits. And if you listen carefully at 8:07 a.m., you might still hear the faint echo of an old voice whispering,
“Absolutely.”