The 110 Mystery

Recently, students have been reporting an ominous feeling in Room 110. We, Basis Independent Fremont’s brave-hearted journalists, decided to investigate the scene and bring back safety and security to our school. We set out by first interrogating students.

I: Have you ever noticed anything off about room 110?

Kamala: There are always bugs in the room. After lunch, everyone brings their muddy shoes. Jasmine: I can never hear the teacher over everyone’s pen clicking. Olive: Maybe the smell. Spencer: The strange hole in the ceiling.
Doya: I can never focus in that classroom. There’s always this faint tapping noise.

With each student’s response, we only became more intrigued and dedicated to solving the mystery of Room 110. We knew the only thing to do now was to investigate the scene for ourselves. When we entered the classroom, we saw a strange hole in the corner of the ceiling, just as the students had said. Our hole of focus sits in the rightmost corner of the pentagon-shaped room; from beneath, you can see old, torn wires, hanging from the ceilings with split ends. Sparks fly between the wires ever so often and shine in the dark unknown. Rusting pipes stick out from the walls, with stale, moldy water collecting on the bottom, creating a rotten stench that permeates through the room. Past the rotting beams of wood, trickles of sunlight force their way in. But what is really inside the eerie hole?

We stacked up a few desks, balanced a chair on top and launched ourselves into the gap that wasn’t meant for us. We curled up under the two foot ceiling; our knees pressed against the wet and clammy tiles beneath us; our elbows hit each other with each waddle forward. It was pitch black, allowing us to only see a few inches ahead of us. Just as we turned on our flashlights to look around, they stopped working. We couldn’t see or hear anything besides a faint tapping of metal in the distance. With that sound as our only guide, we pushed forward in search of the secrets of the hole of Room 110.

We ventured inward, following the tapping noise in the distance. The rhythmic, intense sound pounding in our ears escalated with each inch forward. After what seemed like hours in the darkness, we saw a blurry shadow starting to form in the distance.

The tapping had increased to a deafening pitch — the noise pierced our eardrums, sending shivers down our spines. It dawned upon us that we had to turn back, walk away, and escape this trap. But it was too late. Even after we turned away from the tapping, it seemed to follow us wherever we went. The sound persisted from every direction, in every crevice of our mind. We tried to scream, but we were drowned out by the unbearable racket. The shadow once again appeared before us, and with nowhere to run, we could only face it.

Silence.

A sliver of sunlight glanced over the figure, and by squinting our eyes enough, we could make out small details: a beard, long and matted, a wilted flower on top of tilted hat, dust and soot collected a small round nose, and beady dark eyes filled with immeasurable sadness — not blinking even once. As we looked closer, it began to vaguely remind us of someone familiar.

Then, it hit us — it was Norm! Norm the Gnome. We saw him tapping his bumblebee pin on a student's confiscated phone, creating that maddening clamor. We tried to turn around, for the Norm we once knew was now unrecognizable, but he called out to us, his voice scratching his husky throat.

We decided that we, as investigators, couldn’t give up. It was up to us to overcome our fear and discover the truth. We set on interviewing Norm.

Despite his jarring looks, Norm is more lonely than villainous. Ever since 2021, Norm the Gnome has been a symbol of community norms, a model of excellence.

Norm told us, “I have followed community guidelines for as long as I can remember, and have penalized more unsuspecting students for electronic usage than I can count. I was sick and tired of the disobedient students. Six months ago, I was fired and told never to step foot in BASIS Independent Fremont ever again. My heart broke into millions of pieces and never found a way to reassemble itself. The only answer to my unemployment was to be cold, ruthless, and harsh. And if that meant disturbing classes by drumming on confiscated phones, so be it.”

Despite being a menace to the students, Norm told us that he missed the old times. Tears brimming in his beady eyes, he confessed: “I remember when students had fun. They played hide and seek with me in every classroom. But as the days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, they gradually started forgetting about me. Forgetting to play those old games with me. Forgetting my existence. And I asked myself whether or not all the despair was worth it.”

Norm, neglected by BIFU students, has become increasingly bitter. “I didn’t mean for it to turn out this way— to haunt a classroom full of the students I once cared for— but I have been left without a choice. What have I become?” He looked up wistfully into the small crevices of sunlight, whether in happy remembrance or bitter sadness was unknown to us.

Norm began bawling his eyes out, and we decided to end the interview there. Wiping his wetface, he let us go on one condition — to spread his final message. As we finish this article, we promise to honor Norm’s last message to us: “Follow Community Guidelines.”