Ghost in Workshop

Workshop 3 at the technical college was cursed. Or so everyone said.

Every night shift, tools would move. Electrodes would vanish. And at exactly 2:17am, you’d hear: _tsssk… tsssk… tsssk_ — like someone doing stop and start welding in the dark.

New students refused to stay there.

Then came Musa. Broke, stubborn, needed the night shift allowance. First night, he ignored the stories. Put on his helmet at 2:15am.

2:17am. _tsssk… tsssk…_

He peeked from his corner. No one there. But the welding machine was on, sparks flying at an empty bench. The metal was joining itself.

Musa didn’t run. He grabbed his own holder and joined in. _tsssk…_ Stop. _tsssk…_ Start. Matching the ghost’s rhythm.

The sparks stopped. Silence.

Then a voice behind him, old and crackly: “You’re the first one who didn’t run. You understand the pause.”

Musa turned. Empty workshop. But on the bench lay a perfect weld, and beside it, a rusty name tag: *“Foreman Dele, 1987”*

Next morning, all the missing tools were back. Neatly arranged.

Till today, whenever students do stop and start welding in Workshop 3, they leave one electrode at the corner bench. “For Foreman Dele,” they say. “So he knows we’re listening.”