29 Oct The Goodness Room

I’ve never talked about this before. I’m not even sure why I’m posting it now, except that it’s been eating at me for years. Maybe someone here will believe me, or maybe I just need to get it out. Either way, this is the truth, as much as I can make sense of it.

When I was seven, my mom died. It was sudden—an aneurysm. She collapsed in the middle of the kitchen, and by the time the ambulance arrived, she was gone. My dad didn’t know what to do. He was this big, quiet guy who’d worked the same warehouse job for years, and after Mom died, he just… froze. A few months later, he packed up my little brother Dallas and me and moved us to a mining town in West Virginia. He’d gotten a new job, something that kept him away for long hours and left him too tired to talk most nights.

The town was tiny—just a cluster of houses, a single gas station, and this old K-12 school that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 1950s. It smelled like mildew and old chalkboards, and the floors creaked with every step. There were only two teachers for my grade, and they were so strict that I’d nearly have a panic attack if they so much as looked disappointed in me.

The rules were everything at that school. If you didn’t follow them, you were “warned.” If the initial warnings didn’t work, you’d hear the same threat: “Don’t make me send you to the Goodness Room.”

At first, I thought it was just a story—something to scare us into behaving, like the boogeyman. The other kids acted like it was no big deal, even laughing about it sometimes. “The Goodness Room’s just the janitor’s closet,” one kid said. Another whispered it was where they made kids sit in the dark until they cried. No one really knew, and none of us were brave enough to find out.

Then Jacob got sent there.

Jacob was this wiry, loudmouthed kid who was always getting into trouble. He’d steal pencils off desks, shout dumb jokes during class, and talk back to teachers like he didn’t care what happened to him. I think we all secretly admired him for that. But one day, he went too far.

It was during math. Mrs. Granger, our teacher, was already annoyed with Jacob for humming loudly while she was explaining long division. Then he made some smart remark about her “old lady perfume,” and she snapped.

“That’s it,” she said, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Jacob, you’re going to the Goodness Room.”

He froze, and for the first time, I saw fear flicker in his face. “What? No, I’ll stop—”

Two men appeared at the door, dressed in suits that didn’t match the peeling walls of the classroom. Without a word, they walked in, grabbed Jacob by the arms, and dragged him out. He screamed, kicking and thrashing, but they didn’t flinch.

The door slammed shut behind them, and the room went dead silent.

None of us said a word for the rest of the day.

* * * * * *

Jacob didn’t come back to class the next day. Or the day after that.

The first day, we all just assumed he’d been suspended. He was always in trouble, and a couple of days at home didn’t seem out of the ordinary. But by the third day, kids started whispering.

“What if he’s still in the Goodness Room?” one girl asked during lunch, her voice barely audible over the clatter of trays.

“No way,” a boy replied, his tone dismissive. “They’re not allowed to keep you there that long. My cousin got sent once, and he was back in class the same day.”

“What happened to him?” I asked, but the boy just shrugged.

The whispers stopped when Jacob finally walked back into class on Friday. At first, we were relieved. He wasn’t hurt or crying. But then we got a better look at him.

Jacob wasn’t the same.

He didn’t crack jokes or smile like he used to. His face was blank, his eyes dull, like all the light had been sucked out of him. He didn’t even flinch when Mrs. Granger barked at him to sit down.

When recess came, the usual chaos of kids running around the playground didn’t touch him. He just sat on the bench, staring straight ahead. A couple of us gathered around him, trying to figure out what had happened.

“Where were you?” one of the girls asked.

Jacob’s eyes flicked toward her for a second before he muttered, “I was in the Goodness Room.” His voice was flat, mechanical.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled the collar of his shirt higher up his neck, like he was trying to hide something. But we’d already seen it: a small black number printed at the base of his neck.

“What’s that?” another boy asked, pointing.

Jacob’s hand shot up to cover the tattoo. “Nothing,” he mumbled.

“Did they do that to you in the Goodness Room?” I pressed.

Jacob froze for a moment, then nodded ever so slightly. “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” he whispered. “Not about the room. Not about my… assignment.”

“Assignment?” I repeated, confused.

He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he stood up abruptly and walked back toward the school building.

That night, I told my dad everything.

We were sitting at the kitchen table. Dallas was upstairs in bed, and the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator. I told him about the Goodness Room, about Jacob and the tattoo.

My dad sighed and rubbed his face. He looked so tired. “It’s probably just some disciplinary thing, Emmett,” he said. “Some schools do that—scare the kids a little so they straighten up.”

“But, Dad—”

“Look, I know you’re upset, but I need you to focus on yourself, okay? Don’t get in trouble, and you won’t have to worry about any of this.”

I wanted to argue, to make him understand how wrong it all felt. But I could tell he wasn’t really listening. His job at the mine was hard, and I knew he was doing his best just to keep us afloat. So I dropped it.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about Jacob and his tattoo.

In the days that followed, I watched him closely. He never spoke unless a teacher called on him, and even then, his answers were short and robotic. He never played during recess, never smiled, never laughed. It was like someone had flipped a switch in his head and turned off everything that made him unique. That made him…Jacob.

The worst part was the way the teachers treated him. They didn’t scold him or even look annoyed anymore. It was like he’d become their perfect student, the kind they always wanted.

The other kids started avoiding him. At first, I thought it was because they didn’t want to be around someone so strange. But I realized it was more than that. They were scared.

And honestly, so was I.

For a little while, things at school went back to normal. Well, as normal as they could get under the circumstances. I kept my head down, stuck to the rules, and tried not to think about the Goodness Room.

But then it happened to Dallas.

It started during Art. Dallas was in second grade, and his class had been painting something for Thanksgiving—turkeys, I think. He was always kind of clumsy, and when he got excited, his arms flailed like crazy. One wrong move, and he knocked over a jar of red paint, spilling it all over another kid’s project.

The teacher, Mrs. Kirkland, lost it. She yelled at Dallas, called him careless, and told him to clean it up. I wasn’t there to see it, but one of his classmates told me later that Dallas started crying, apologizing over and over.

That didn’t stop her.

By the end of the day, I was waiting for Dallas at the bus stop like usual, but he didn’t show up. Dread welled up inside me as the bus came and went, leaving me standing there alone. Something terrible had happened; I knew it.

I ran home as fast as I could, bursting through the door and shouting for Dad. He was already in the kitchen, his face pale and grim.

“Where’s Dallas?” I asked, breathless.

“He’s still at school,” Dad said quietly.

“Why?”

Dad hesitated. “The teacher called me. Said he got sent to some… room. The Goodness Room.”

My eyes widened. “Dad, you have to go get him!”

“I tried,” he said. “I called, but they said it’s part of their discipline policy. Like after-school detention. They wouldn’t let me pick him up early.”

Dallas didn’t come home until after dinner. The instant he walked through the door, I knew something was wrong.

His eyes were empty, his shoulders slumped—just like Jacob—and he didn’t say a word. I ran up to hug him, but he stepped back, like he didn’t even recognize me.

“D—Dallas?” I whispered, my voice trembling.

He didn’t answer.

Then I saw it. A small black number tattooed at the base of his neck. Just like Jacob’s.

“What did they do to you?” I choked out.

He glanced at me, his face blank, and said, “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

Dad tried to get him to eat, to talk, to show some sign of his old self, but Dallas just sat there, staring into space. Finally, Dad slammed his fist on the table and stood up.

“That’s it!” he said. “I’m going to the school.”

I tried to stop him. “Dad, they won’t tell you anything! They’ll just—”

“I don’t care!” he shouted, grabbing his coat. “They can’t do this to my son!”

He stormed out, leaving Dallas and me alone in the quiet, dimly lit kitchen. I wanted to cry, to scream, to do something—anything—but all I could do was sit there, staring at my brother, who didn’t even seem to realize I was in the room.

Dad didn’t come back until late that night.

When he walked in, I could tell something had happened. His face was pale, his eyes unfocused. He looked like he’d aged ten years in just a few hours.

“D—Dad?” I asked hesitantly.

He didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, swaying slightly, like he was trying to remember how to speak. Then he slowly rolled up the sleeve of his shirt.

There, on his wrist, was a black tattoo.

My blood ran cold. “No,” I whispered. “What… what did they do to you?”

He looked at me, and for a split second, I thought I saw tears in his eyes. But then his expression shifted, smoothing out into something vacant and unfamiliar.

“You need to be a good boy, Emmett,” he said, his voice low and hollow. “Do as you’re told at school. Don’t ask questions.”

I shook my head, backing away, struggling to hold back tears. “Dad, this isn’t you! They did something to you, didn’t they?”

But he didn’t respond. He just turned and walked into his bedroom, leaving me alone with Dallas.

For the next few days, it was like living with strangers. Dallas and Dad went about their routines like nothing had happened, but neither of them smiled or laughed. They barely spoke to me unless it was to tell me to behave.

I felt like I was losing my mind.

Whatever the Goodness Room was, it wasn’t just some disciplinary measure. It was changing people—taking something from them. And I knew it was only a matter of time before I was next—and I wasn’t about to sit around and wait for it to happen.

* * * * * *

For the next few days, I made sure to stay out of trouble at school. I didn’t speak unless spoken to. I avoided eye contact. But I was always watching—listening.

The teachers seemed different now. They didn’t raise their voices as often and didn’t bother with the usual lectures or detentions. The threat of the Goodness Room was all they needed. If a kid even looked like they might act out, the teacher would pause, fix them with a cold stare, and say, “Do you want to visit the Goodness Room?”

No one argued anymore.

At home, things had gotten worse. Dad barely spoke to me, and when he did, it was only to remind me to “be good.” Dallas remained quiet and distant, like a doll going through the motions of being alive. Every time I saw that tattoo on the back of his neck, I felt sick to my stomach.

Before long, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to know what was happening.

One night, after everyone else had gone to bed, I made up my mind to take matters into my own hands. I packed a flashlight, a screwdriver, and a pocketknife into my school backpack. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had.

I slipped out the back door and made my way to the school. The air was cold and sharp, the only sounds the crunch of my sneakers on the gravel road and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind.

The school looked even more ominous at night. The windows were dark, and the peeling paint on the walls seemed to glow faintly in the moonlight. I hesitated at the entrance, my hand hovering over the doorknob, before finally pushing it open.

The hallways were silent, the fluorescent lights flickering faintly overhead. I kept my footsteps light, moving toward the back of the school where I’d seen Jacob taken that day.

Eventually, I found it: a heavy metal door at the end of a dim hallway. There was no label on it, just a small keypad. The Goodness Room. I had no idea what the code was, but I tried the handle anyway. Locked.

I crouched down and used the screwdriver to pry open the panel on the side of the keypad. Inside was a mess of wires, and I had no idea what I was doing, but I was prepared to break the door down if I needed to. Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. After a few minutes of fumbling with the wires, the lock gave a soft click, and the door creaked open.

The smell hit me immediately—the scent of antiseptic and iron, like blood. I shined my flashlight into the room, and my breath hitched.

Whatever the place was, it sure as hell wasn’t a janitor’s closet.

The room was cramped and sterile, with stark white walls. In the center, a single metal chair was bolted to the floor, straps hanging loosely from the armrests and footrests. Above it, there was a mechanical arm tipped with a needle-like tool. Nearby, a table held a variety of surgical instruments I didn’t recognize.

On the far wall, a monitor displayed a list of names and numbers, many of them crossed out. I saw Jacob’s name there. Dallas’s, too.

I felt like I was going to throw up.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice startled me so badly that I almost dropped my flashlight. I turned to see one of the teachers, Mr. Keller, standing in the doorway. His face was partially obscured by the shadows, but I could see the anger in his eyes.

“I—I just wanted to see—” I stammered.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said, stepping into the room. Behind him, two men in suits appeared.

Before I could run, they grabbed me, dragging me toward the chair. I screamed and kicked, but they were too strong. They strapped me in, tightening the restraints around my wrists and ankles until I couldn’t move.

The needle on the mechanical arm began to glow faintly, and the arm moved toward me.

“No!” I yelled, struggling against the straps. “Let me go!”

But they didn’t listen. One of the men pressed a button, and the needle lowered toward the base of my neck. I felt a sharp sting, like the prick of a bee, and then—

The strap on my right wrist snapped.

I didn’t think; I acted. I yanked my arm free and grabbed the needle, pulling it away before it could go any deeper. One of the men lunged at me, but I swung the flashlight, hitting him square in the face, sending him reeling and clutching his nose.

I freed my other hand and tore off the ankle straps, scrambling out of the chair as fast as possible. The men shouted, but I didn’t stop. I ran past them, out into the hallway, and through the front doors. The cold air assaulted my senses, but I never stopped, not once. I didn’t even look back.

I ran until my legs burned and my lungs ached. Soon school disappeared behind me, replaced by endless fields and dark woods. I kept going, driven by pure adrenaline and the thought that if I slowed down, they’d catch me.

Eventually, headlights appeared in the distance. A car. No—a police cruiser.

I stumbled into the road, waving my arms frantically. The cruiser slowed, and the officer inside stepped out, shining a flashlight on me.

“Kid, what the hell happened to you?” he asked.

I tried to answer, but all I could do was gasp for air.

“It’s okay,” the officer said, guiding me into the car. “You’re safe now.” But I didn’t feel safe. Not yet.

Not while the Goodness Room still existed.

* * * * * *

The officer drove me toward my house, and for the first time that night, I allowed myself to believe I might be okay. The adrenaline was fading, and exhaustion was winning out. My head rested against the cool window as the cruiser rumbled over the gravel road.

When we turned onto my street, though, my heart dropped.

Red and orange flames lit up the sky above my house. No, I thought. It couldn’t be.

My house was on fire.

Fire trucks were already there, doing their best to quell the inferno. Smoke billowed into the air, and neighbors stood outside, staring at the scene.

The officer slammed on the brakes and bolted out of the car. I followed, my legs shaking as I stumbled toward the crowd.

“No…” I whispered, the word catching in my throat.

One of the firefighters tried to stop me. “Kid, stay back! You can’t—”

“My family’s in there!” I screamed, trying to push past him.

He grabbed me, holding me back. “It’s too late. We’re still putting it out, but ain’t no one coming out of that. I’m so sorry.”

I stopped struggling, my knees buckling beneath me. The heat from the flames felt like it was crawling over my skin.

Dallas.

Dad.

Gone.

Everybody gone.

I sat on the curb as the fire raged on. The officer tried to ask me questions—what had happened, where I’d been—but I couldn’t speak. My throat was raw, my world shattered. I just stared at the house, the home I’d shared with my family, as it crumbled before my eyes.

When the flames finally died down, they recovered two bodies. The coroner was thoughtful, wrapping them up gently. I didn’t need to see them to know.

My dad.

My brother.

Dead.

The police later ruled it was an electrical fire, likely caused by faulty wiring. It was a tragic accident, the report said, but I knew better.

I overheard one of the investigators say something about the bodies—how they were burned so badly that there was almost nothing left to identify them. Any trace of the tattoos they’d had, the ones I’d seen myself, were gone. And along with them, any hope of proving what had happened to them.

It felt deliberate. Someone wanted to erase my family, to make sure there was no evidence tying them and their deaths to the school. To the Goodness Room.

* * * * * *

The next few weeks were a blur. Social workers came and went, offering me condolences and promises they couldn’t keep. I was sent to live with a foster family in another town, far away from the school.

I tried to tell the police about the Goodness Room, about what the school was doing, but no one really believed me.

“The Goodness Room?” one officer asked, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure it wasn’t just some detention program?”

“They tattooed them,” I insisted, my voice shaking. “They did something to them in there, something awful. My dad… he wasn’t the same anymore. Not after what they did to him.”

But they just gave me those pitying looks, the kind adults give when they think a kid’s struggling to cope with trauma.

When it became clear I wasn’t going to take no for an answer, they finally agreed to interview the school staff.

They denied everything.

“The Goodness Room isn’t real,” the principal said, shaking her head. “It’s like an urban legend. Something the kids made up to scare each other.”

The teachers backed her up. They claimed Jacob, Dallas, and I were troublemakers, prone to exaggerating.

Speaking of Jacob, I tried to find his family, but they were gone. Moved away, according to the neighbors. No forwarding address. No phone number. It was like they’d vanished.

I didn’t know what to think anymore.

* * * * * *

Decades later, I still don’t understand what happened. Was the Goodness Room some kind of experiment, or a punishment? Or something worse?

I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s eyes when he came home that night. Or the way Dallas had been hollowed out, replaced by someone that looked an awful lot like my brother, but… wasn’t.

I’ve kept quiet over the years, and I’ve put a lot of miles between myself and the school. Sometimes, though, I wonder if the teachers, the principal, and the men in suits are still out there, waiting to finish what they started. I worry that even after all this time, they’re just waiting for me to slip up, to stop behaving myself—and that I’ll wake up to find myself back in that room, with a number on my neck.

If you’ve ever been to a school like mine, or heard whispers from your neighbors—or, God forbid, your own children—about a place like the Goodness Room, please, I’m begging you, run. Get as far away as you can, and do it now, before it’s too late.

Because whatever it is, it doesn’t just punish you.

It takes something.

And once it does, you never get it back.