The Teacher in the Ceiling: A Haunting Reflection on the American Education System

Written by Brooke Bias

"We have put her living in the tomb."

Edgar Allan Poe, "The Fall of the House of Usher"

"The woman behind shakes it! Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind, and sometimes, only one, and she crawls around fast, and her crawling shakes it all over."

Charlotte Perkins Gilman, "The Yellow Wallpaper"

***

“Mrs. Read, I’m glad you applied when you did,” said Mr. Stanley as he led me down the high school hallway. “We were beginning to feel the pressure, to be honest. Ms. Cardinal had been with us for over ten years, and I didn’t expect her to leave.” With a sideways glance, he added, “I think you’ll be a great fit for the senior English classes. We’ve got three blocks we need covered.”

The freshly buffed floors and Mr. Stanley’s bald head shone beneath the fluorescent lights. The squeak of his cheap brown Oxfords echoed off the cinderblock walls. A Christmas tree leaned awkwardly in an alcove to our right – outdated ornaments still clinging to its fake branches, though Christmas had come and gone nearly three weeks ago.

He gestured to our left and said, “This will be your classroom, number 201.” 

Number 201, I smiled. I was finally becoming the teacher I had dreamed of being since childhood.

Mr. Stanley opened the door. I expected a room brimming with promise. Instead, I saw a classroom that the system had long neglected. 

The afternoon sun glared through the wall of windows, forcing me to squint.  The air that rushed out was musty, bitter even. 

My eyes landed on a brown oval stain on the ceiling, just above the teacher’s desk. It spread outward in rings, like the rings inside a tree trunk. I imagined each layer of the stain marking the number of years the room had been abandoned.

Mr. Stanley stepped inside and began fiddling with the long black blinds. He twisted the wand, but it was obvious the blinds hadn’t worked in years. Finally, he pressed his palm against the slats, forcing them shut. The room dimmed. I stepped through the doorway. 

Stripes of light stretched across the orange tile floor. The remaining rays of sunlight revealed the dust particles Mr. Stanley had stirred from the blinds, each one drifting erratically.

Classes would begin in less than 48 hours.

“Mrs. Read,” said Mr. Stanley, turning to face me, “This room hasn’t been used for quite some time. It needs a woman’s touch, and I’m sure you're just the right person to get it spruced up.” 

Taking a few steps toward the door, he added,  “Mrs. Goody has been assigned as your mentor. She’ll be working with you for the next year. She has a lot of experience and will either answer your questions or point you to someone who can.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve asked her to drop in later today. Until then…” he slid into the hallway, “do some prep work. We’re getting down to the wire.”

His stubby figure disappeared around the corner.

I stood alone in my classroom and turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. This wasn’t the classroom I had imagined as a girl—but it was mine. The mismatched desks, peeling posters, and half-torn bulletin board weren’t part of the dream. They were the reality. So was the stain, which hovered over my head.  I felt a flicker of doubt tighten my chest.  That doubt wasn’t unfamiliar—it had taken root months before I had stepped into room 201.

I could still hear her voice.

***

“I’m sorry to tell you this, dear, but your student teaching mentor, Mrs. Dewalt, and I just don’t think you have the personality to be a successful teacher,” said Dr. Evelyn.

My heart began to race.

My head, however, remained logical. Eighteen credit hours for a minor in education. Six classes in total. All were completed with straight A’s. And, now, I had finished the required student teaching. My academic scholarships had covered the costs. I pressed my thumbnail into the palm of my hand, trying to curb the pain I felt from this disclosure.

“I believe I’ve met all the requirements, Dr. Evelyn,” I said. “I’ve completed the required classes.” 

“Yes, it’s just that Mrs. Dewalt says your classroom personality is quite flat, and to be honest with you, I agree with her. When I observed you in the classroom, I noticed that your voice lacked emotion. You were also having some difficulty connecting with and managing the behavior of your students.”

Her words lingered as sharp as glass.

***

“Mrs. Read?” whispered a voice from the hallway.

I turned, searching for whoever had said my name. 

Just beyond my classroom door was a pale face, half shadowed. Her hair was a shocking shade of white. She stepped into my room. 

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“It seems I’ve been assigned as your mentor,” she smiled, displaying a row of yellowed teeth.

“Oh, are you Mrs. Goody?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes, of course,” she replied.

I studied the lines on her face. She had to be over 70. Sadness settled into my chest as I realized she likely couldn’t afford to retire. 

“Don’t worry, dear. I’ve got a few good years left,” she said, catching the look of concern on my face.

“Oh, of course. No, I didn’t mean...”

“I work directly with the teachers now. No more students for me.”

She paused before continuing. “I’m glad they found a place for me. I couldn’t work when my kids were little, and now that Mr. Goody is gone...” 

She didn’t finish the sentence, and I didn’t press her.

“Anyway, I’ll do my best to guide you and answer any questions you have. I’m afraid I’m not of much use with technology and all that. I’ll be dropping in a couple of times a week to watch you at work, and I’ll offer advice from there.”

“That’s a relief,” I said. “I look forward to receiving your support. Where can I find you if I need anything?”

“I’m two doors down from the main office. You’ll see my nameplate in the hallway.”

She left quietly.

I closed the door behind her, but the scene replayed in my mind. I sat down at my desk and lowered my forehead to the cold laminate surface.

Would Mrs. Goody’s fate be mine as well? 

I had watched as many of the women in my town continued working well past age sixty-five, while their husbands often had the financial means to retire. The women worked to make up for the years they’d spent raising children, caring for aging parents, or patching together part-time employment without retirement benefits. Years in which saving for the future had been nearly impossible.  

As if caretaking were a vacation. As if they had taken a break.

The weight of economic disparity was heavy.

Would I have the means to work full-time while raising a child or caring for my aging parents? Would I be able to retire after forty years of teaching? Would I even make it that long?

The fear hit me fast and suffocating, like rainwater rushing through a broken drainpipe. I had lived the first fifteen years of my life below the poverty line. I remembered what that felt like—how easily it swallowed me. I would do anything to keep from falling back into that life again.

***

Dr. Evelyn’s voice rushed forward, her tone more hushed, “Your students didn’t seem to like you very well.”

I faltered then. Was I not likable enough to be a teacher? The voice of my English advisor drifted into memory—she had once suggested I pursue a master’s degree in English instead of pursuing a K–12 teaching career. She had said that I would find college-level instruction more fulfilling. I wondered now if this advice was contingent on my personality.   

I pressed forward, “I’m sorry, Dr. Evelyn, I didn’t know that anyone found my personality off-putting. I thought my student teaching evaluation was going to be based on the skills outlined in the grading rubric.” 

A flicker of something—disappointment?—moved across Dr. Evelyn’s face.

***

Two boys hovered in the doorway, whispering to each other.

“Come on in,” I said, smiling.

“Is this English 12?” asked the one in muddy brown boots, glancing around the room.

“It sure is. Come find a seat.”

They shuffled in and slumped into the desks farthest from mine.

“I’m Maxwell,” said the blonde one, with a nod.

“I’m Mrs. Read. Nice to meet you.”

“You new or somethin’?” Maxwell asked, squinting at me. “You look kinda young.” 

“I taught eighth grade last semester.”

He let out a low whistle, “Dang. Bet seniors are gonna be a whole different beast.”

I grinned, “I think I’ll survive.”

He snorted, “Good luck with that.”

Over the next forty minutes, my classroom filled, a few students at a time. After morning announcements, I passed out copies of the syllabus and reviewed my expectations for the semester. I was mostly met with sleepy stares. To shake things up, I introduced a first-day project. They were to design an island that represented themselves and then write a paragraph explaining their design choices. It was meant to be light, a creative way for me to get to know them. 

Only two of the students had brought paper and a pencil with them, so I distributed materials to the rest. The resistance started almost immediately.

“I can’t draw,” muttered Ellie from the front row, her face half hidden beneath a curtain of raven-colored hair.

“As long as you know basic shapes, you can draw,” I said.

Ellie didn’t respond. Her gaze shifted to the marker-stained whiteboard at the front, center of the room. Blue, green, black, red – the colors of the marker stains overlapped. 

After a few minutes, a boy with patchy facial hair from the back row asked, “What do maps have to do with English?” 

The young man beside him added, “Yeah, this isn’t geography. I’ve already taken that class.”

I hesitated. What did it have to do with English?

Before I could answer, Maxwell called from the corner, “Y’all just do it. It’s not that hard.”

I glanced at him, unsure whether to thank him or cringe. Either way, it settled the chatter in the room.

By the time the bell rang, two students still hadn’t made a single mark on their papers. Ellie was one of them. I gathered up their work and stacked it in a wire tray on my desk. Most of the islands were half-drawn. 

The next two classes went ahead in much the same manner, except there was no Maxwell. I had to rely on my voice to keep things moving. It wasn’t enough. 

As the day wore on, fewer and fewer students put forth effort to complete the assignment. There were four blank papers at the end of block three, and five blank papers at the end of block four. 

I was left wondering how I could possibly motivate them.

I glanced upward, half-ready to strike a bargain with God, but all I could see was the ominous stain. Its shape stretched longer now, like a torso. And it hadn’t even rained. 

I looked at the analog clock on the back wall. It was only 3:30 PM, but inside Derby High, time moved differently, slow and heavy, as if it were dragging its feet through mud.

***

In the space of Dr. Evelyn’s pause, my mind went somewhere else entirely.

I imagined myself in a classroom. My classroom. I was wearing bold floral pants, a solid blouse, and chunky earrings that swayed as I moved. My hair was its wavy self, unapologetic. No makeup. Just me. My glasses framed a face that students would recognize day after day. 

I could feel it—the connection. The classroom wasn’t silent or still, but alive with involvement as I shared excerpts from Cheryl Strayed and Mary Karr. 

Had I been lying to myself about what teaching could look like?

***

I studied Mr. Stanley as he sat behind the oversized brown desk, searching his face for a clue about why I’d been called in. His hands were folded over a large white calendar. To his left, Mrs. Goody perched on a rusted science lab stool, back straight, hands resting neatly in her lap.

Mr. Stanley began, “Mrs. Read, thank you for coming in. We’re just a little over four weeks into the semester, and we’ve been hearing some feedback from your students.”

I waited for him to finish. My pulse quickened. I suddenly felt as if I were ten years old and in trouble for something I didn’t know I’d done. 

“It seems,” he continued, “like you might be losing some of their willingness to participate in class.”

“In what way?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Well,” he said glancing at Mrs. Goody, “I think your expectations might be a little high for the kinds of students we have here at Derby.”

“They’re not completing the work,” explained Mrs. Goody, “in class or at home.” 

“I wouldn’t say that’s true for most of them,” I replied. “Some, yes. But not the majority.”

Mr. Stanley leaned back in his chair, “A few students have said they’re unclear on what they’re supposed to do for their writing assignment. We want to make sure everyone’s set up to succeed. Could you tell me what writing has been assigned this week?” 

“Students started a research essay this week,” I explained, “I went over the assignment with a PowerPoint slide and provided them with a printed copy. I gave them everything they needed and asked them to follow up with some reading at home.”

Mr. Stanley tilted his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. I couldn’t tell if it was sympathy or condescension. 

Mrs. Goody began, “Mrs. Read, it’s unlikely that these students have ever completed a research paper before. I’d recommend having them do the whole thing under your supervision. These are high-risk students. They don’t usually do academic work outside of the classroom. And asking for two pages of written work? You’ll be lucky to get two paragraphs.” 

She paused, waiting for me to say something. I looked past her, out the small window to the front lawn. What were they trying to get at?  Was I expecting too much? Had these students never been assigned a research paper? Had things changed that much since I was in high school, just one town over?

Mr. Stanley cleared his throat and added, “It would be best to scale it way back. Keep the assignments manageable. Give clear, oral directions every time. And remember, English 12 isn’t a college prep course. The kids who are heading to college are in the dual-enrollment English courses, not in your classroom. This course isn’t meant to jeopardize graduation. We pride ourselves on the graduation rate here at Derby.”

He looked at me flatly and said, “At the end of the day, the goal of English 12 is to graduate students. Not fail them.”

All was silent. 

I nodded.

“Is there anything else I can do for you today, Mrs. Read?” Mr. Stanley asked.

After fumbling for a coherent thought, I managed to say, “There’s some water damage in my classroom over my desk. I believe there may be a roof leak that needs to be repaired.”

Mr. Stanley looked at Mrs. Goody. 

She looked at me and said, “I haven’t noticed any stains when I’ve been in your room. How long’s it been like that?”

“I saw it on the first day I was here,” I said. “It’s grown since then.”

“Where exactly is it?” she asked, sounding tired.

“Right above my desk.”

She let out a slow exhale, like I’d asked her to patch the roof.

“I’ll ask maintenance to take a look,” Mr. Stanley said, turning back to his calendar. “Thanks for coming in, Mrs. Read. I think you’ve got a class starting soon.”

***

Dr. Evelyn’s voice interrupted. “I understand precisely what your evaluation does and does not include,” she began. “Nonetheless, you really may want to consider an alternative career path . . . I don’t think you will find teaching K-12 suitable. You are going to struggle with the social skills required of teachers.” 

It was clear to me then that she was offended by what I had said. I tapped the heel of my right foot against the dusty green tile. Then the left. The sound of my shuffling filled the air.

My mind drifted. I thought of my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Dickens, who allowed me to take home stacks of easy readers day after day. I recalled Ms. Neil, my fifth-grade teacher, who encouraged me to join her in working on the school yearbook, and Mrs. Blevins, my seventh-grade teacher, who worked with me tirelessly so I could compete in spelling bees. I also remembered Mrs. Robins, my tenth-grade teacher, who told me my poetry was powerful and wise beyond my years. I owed them something, didn’t I? Weren’t they the reason I was here at all?

I tried again. “Have I not passed the student teaching course? It’s the final requirement I need to complete my minor and obtain my license.”

At last, she opened the manila folder on her desk and pulled out the evaluation, one sheet completed by her and another by my mentor teacher.

***

I returned to my classroom. The stain on the ceiling was the first thing I saw as I entered. It had changed. Its edges were sharper and its hourglass shape disturbingly clear. For the first time, I began to wonder if something was lurking above the ceiling tiles — something sinister?

The room was filled with students already in their seats. Whispers darted across rows. Someone half-laughed, then quickly shushed another.

“She got called in,” someone muttered.

“She’s probably in trouble.”

I took my place at the worn and rickety podium. The voices quieted slowly and awkwardly.

“How many of you plan on attending college at any point after graduation, even if it is not right away?” 

There was some reluctance. Maxwell’s hand went up first. Within a few seconds, half of the classroom had their hands raised. This included the hand of Ellie, who still sat in the front row. She had yet to complete a single assignment.

“I see,” I said. 

“How many of you are attending tech school to prepare yourselves for work?”

Again, approximately half of the students raised their hands, and while there was some overlap, it was mostly the students who hadn’t raised their hands to indicate college attendance.

“How many of you feel like the classes you're taking right now—including this one—don’t have anything to do with the future you want?”

That got them. Nearly all of their hands were raised.

“Hell yeah,” said a boy in the second row—Brayden, always half-asleep but never rude. “Like, we’re reading Poe, but what does that have to do with my life here and now?”

“I work at the gas station every night,” said Denise, sweeping her braids to her back. “I don’t got time to write research papers about whatever prompt the state of Virginia decides we need to write about this week. I’m just tryna make money... and graduate.”

“I’m not dumb,” added Kaylee. “But I didn’t do any of the dual-enrollment stuff. Those kids don’t even talk to us.”

I listened. I made notes on a yellow legal pad. I didn’t comment. Not yet.

They didn’t need a lecture. They needed someone to take them seriously.

And suddenly, I understood—this wasn’t apathy. It was something else. They wanted to provide for themselves. They just didn’t see how what we were doing here connected.

And honestly, maybe it didn’t. Not yet.

I looked up again.

The stain above my desk had taken on a reddish tone, and I suddenly wondered if it was blood. Had it been blood all along? A brownish-red shade?

My heart began to race, and a sudden throbbing arose at my temples. A migraine was imminent.

***

Dr. Evelyn jabbed the paperwork in my direction, “We’ve assigned you a B, Mrs. Read. We had little choice. You taught the required material to the required classes for the semester, but... it all fell quite flat.” 

“Is that all, then?” I asked, taking the papers from her hand.

***

I glanced hurriedly at the hallway clock as I made my way to my classroom: 8:09 AM. Surely, I wasn’t late again, was I?  The clocks in this building never seemed to agree with the world outside. My homeroom students would be waiting, once again, without supervision.

I turned left through the classroom door, eager to unload my work tote. The room was already half full of students who’d arrived by bus.

And there it was again — the stain on the ceiling.

I froze. I couldn’t look away. It had changed.

It hadn’t rained this weekend, had it? I couldn’t remember. But the shape was different now.

 I tilted my head slowly to the right, then left. On Friday, it was an hourglass shape. Now it had arms — two of them — stretched wide like the hands of a clock. 

My stomach churned. A putrid odor struck me, like that of rotting flesh. I rushed to the window, pulling back the latches. With my fingers gripped tightly on its ledge, I pulled. 

“Those don’t open, Mrs. Read,” Maxwell said from behind me.

He was right. No matter how hard I pulled, they wouldn’t budge.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, standing now, coming toward me.

I whispered, “The stain on the ceiling… and the smell…”

He followed my gaze upward. “Mrs. Read, I’m sure the ceiling’s old, but… I don’t see any stains.”

“What?”

Then, leaning closer, he murmured, “If you smell something, it’s probably Anna. They’ve had rats in their trailer for years.”

I pressed my fingers hard against the bridge of my nose. Why didn’t he see the stain? Anna lives with rats?

My vision swam.

“I need to sit down.”

“Is she okay?” Ellie asked from her desk, voice soft with concern.

“Oh yeah,” Maxwell replied casually. “Probably just caught that virus that’s going around.”

“Would you like a bottle of water?” Ellie offered, pointing to the mini fridge behind the door.

“That would be good,” I said. My face burned.

Ellie brought it over and set it gently on my desk. I took a slow, deliberate sip of water, letting the cold calm my nerves. The panic hadn’t vanished, but it had softened — dulled around the edges. 

Ellie still stood beside my desk, watching me closely, waiting for a sign that I was okay. It had taken me nearly six weeks, but I was beginning to win Ellie over. 

She’d started completing her assignments last week — a small shift, but meaningful. Her defensiveness lingered, sharp and reflexive, but I could see it: she was lowering her emotional walls.

“I’m okay, Ellie,” I said, though we both knew I wasn’t.  Both Ellie and Maxwell returned to their seats.

I was grateful that panic had overtaken me during homeroom and not during fourth block. That class was merciless — piranhas always circling, waiting for weakness. Just last week, I’d watched Eamon swallow a handful of pills at his desk — already on probation for drug charges. And Sawyer, who sat in the second row, had started rubbing himself and moaning every time I walked by. I’d reported both incidents to Mr. Stanley. On Friday, he said he’d spoken to them and was “confident” they’d behave going forward.

I wasn’t so sure.

The stain on the ceiling still lingered at the edge of my vision.

I found myself thinking of Ms. Cardinal. Where had they said she went?

“Maxwell,” I asked quietly, “do you know where Ms. Cardinal moved to?”

He shrugged. “She found a new man and moved down south. Somewhere by the ocean, I think. Not sure what town.”

I nodded, though I felt no clarity.

No one ever really said why she left.

Surely… she wasn’t in the ceiling, was she?

***

“That’s it,”  Dr. Everlyn said, already turning back to her computer screen.

I left her office in a fog of disbelief. Why had she waited until the final evaluation to tell me she didn’t think I had a future in this career? Why not sooner, when I could’ve adjusted my plans?

I didn’t have enough money to attend graduate school or to earn a second bachelor’s degree. I didn’t have enough money to leave the Appalachian Mountains and build a more financially viable life. 

So I made up my mind, right there, in the hallway: I would be a damn good teacher.

***

A week had passed since the stain on my classroom ceiling had grown arms.

The odor still lingered – sickly sweet, like soured fruit. Worse yet, I now had to pretend I didn’t see the stain because Maxwell had said there was nothing there. Maintenance told Mr. Stanley the same. No stain.

But, I saw it – every day, spreading.  It now had two fully formed legs. Even worse, Mr. Stanley needed to speak with me before first block.

I tapped lightly at Mr. Stanley’s office door. The ivory blinds were drawn tightly behind the glass pane, aside from one panel which bent at an ungodly angle.

“Come in,” he said.

The hinges cried out as I entered, high and sharp, like that of a pain-stricken rabbit. 

“Mrs. Read, I was hoping I would catch you before class. Have a seat,” he motioned.

“Yes,” I said, as I took a seat, “Maxwell said you wanted to speak to me.” 

“He’s a good young man,” he offered, absentmindedly.

“Yes,” I nodded, “he is.” 

He folded his hands and cleared his throat, “Mrs. Read, something unfortunate happened last night. I’m afraid Mrs. Goody is no longer with us.” 

I stammered, “She… has she– ?”

“Yes,” he interrupted, “She passed away peacefully in her home last night. I’ve already begun to clear out her things, but I wanted to make sure you heard the news from me.”

I said nothing. Words escaped me.

“I know you have been working quite closely with her this semester and didn’t want the news to come to you as a shock. You see, Mrs. Goody has been selflessly serving our community on and off for over forty years. I am certain that she was able to pass peacefully knowing that she had served her purpose.”

He finished.

He leaned back slightly, his eyes scanning the clutter on his desk. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in weeks — coffee rings, bent paper clips, and an unopened mint. He picked up an old brown Swingline stapler — the kind with chipping enamel and weight like a brick. Beside it sat a mug with fading red apples and the words “Teachers like you inspire us to reach for the stars.” A dark ring stained the inside of the white ceramic.

“I thought you could use this,” he said, holding out the stapler. “A young teacher like you — I’m sure it’ll come in handy.”

My brow furrowed, “I’m sorry... was this Mrs. Goody’s stapler?” 

“Yes. Yes, it was.” 

I stood and watched as my hand reached out, almost involuntarily.  My palm met the cold metal. It was the heaviest stapler I had ever held.  I rose then and exited the room, the air too thick to breathe.

I paused just outside Mr. Stanley’s door and leaned against the rusty black lockers that lined the walls. My heart pounded. I held the stapler limp at my side. Mr. Stanley’s voice echoed in my mind, “She had served her purpose.” In my mind’s eye, I could see my career in teaching spread out before me. I could see forty years’ worth of school year calendars unfolding. Each of them printed on crisp white paper, divided up into two semesters per year, with five months before Christmas break and five months after. Teacher work days. Meet the teacher night. Parent conferences. Football games. Track meets. Lockdowns. Standardized testing. Fire drills. Spirit week. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Forty years. Maybe more. 

I moved through the halls like a ghost, my legs carrying me without sensation. The stairs rose up before me, and they seemed unending. As if it would take forty years to climb them. I turned the corner to my room. I tried not to look, but the stain had changed again – it had a face. It had finally taken human form. I sat down in my chair. It was time to face that which I feared. I cast my gaze upward, and I could no longer deny that the stain didn’t belong to Ms. Cardinal or Mrs. Goody. It wasn’t someone else rotting above the ceiling tiles.

It was me.

The parts of me that could not – would not – survive this system. 

I dropped the stapler onto my desk. The metal thunk echoed through the raucous room. My gaze didn’t waver. The stain stared back, its silhouette perfectly matching my own.