Bauxite Historical Association Museum

The Bauxite museum has always been kind of a second home for me. My grandpa used to call the numbers on Tuesday bingo nights, and the place was always full of noise and laughter. But ever since Joe—the guy who ran it—passed away, the games stopped. Now it’s just an old building with too many memories packed inside.

But when it’s quiet, it doesn’t feel empty.

The event room in the back is the worst. The first time I went in there after bingo stopped, it was so still I could hear my own breathing. Dust hung in the air, and every step I took echoed off the walls. I tried to shake it off, but then I heard footsteps. Not mine. They were slow, heavy, and they circled the room, like someone was pacing between the tables that weren’t even there anymore.

Then a voice came out of nowhere, faint but clear, like it was slipping through the walls.
“B… seventeen.”

My stomach dropped. It wasn’t my grandpa’s voice—it was Joe’s. I hadn’t heard it since the last bingo night, but there it was, like he was still calling numbers to a crowd that didn’t exist.

I bolted, but the hallway didn’t feel safe either. When I passed the bathroom, I swear I heard someone whispering inside. Just low murmurs, too soft to make out. I pushed the door open and the lights flickered overhead. The mirror looked warped, like the glass itself was tired of hanging there. And even though the stalls were empty, I could hear a steady drip-drip-drip that didn’t stop, even with the sinks bone dry.

The basement is worse, but everyone already knows that. The air is thick down there, like breathing through wet cloth. I didn’t stay long—I only made it to the first step before I heard it: footsteps moving in the dark below me, slow and steady, like whoever it was knew I was standing there. I couldn’t move. I just listened until they stopped right at the bottom of the stairs. That’s when I ran.

But the upstairs museum might be the place that haunts me the most. They’ve got rows of old mining helmets, black-and-white photos, and glass cases full of things people used to use. But there’s this one room with shelves of baby dolls—ancient ones, cracked faces, glass eyes cloudy with age. Standing in there alone feels like being watched by a hundred tiny stares. I swear once, when I turned to leave, I heard one of them whisper. Just one word, faint, right behind me:

“Stay.”

September 2025