It was almost midnight when the courthouse finally emptied. The janitor, old Mensah, was finishing his rounds—mopping the marble floors, locking each courtroom one by one. But Courtroom 3 still had its lights on.
He pushed the heavy door open and froze. The courtroom was empty, yet the judge’s bench whispered softly—like someone muttering under their breath.
“Guilty… guilty… guilty…”
Mensah blinked. The air was still, yet the words slithered from the wooden bench itself. He laughed nervously, thinking it was just exhaustion. He turned off the lights and began to leave. Then came the sound of the gavel.
It echoed through the dark halls. Mensah turned, heart pounding, and peered back inside. The judge’s chair was no longer empty. Someone was sitting there.
It was the late Justice Ofori—the judge who’d died years ago after wrongly sentencing a man to death. His pale hand gripped the gavel, eyes sunken and black.
“Court is still in session,”
The ghost rasped. Mensah stumbled backward. The doors slammed shut. The ceiling lights flickered violently, and in the flickers, he saw shadowy figures filling the pews. Faces pale, necks bruised, eyes hollow. Every one of them was someone who had died in that very courtroom. Justice Ofori raised the gavel again.
“The janitor of this court… is found guilty of hearing what must never be heard.”
The next morning, the courthouse opened as usual. Everything looked normal except for one thing. The mop bucket stood in the middle of Courtroom 3, water still dripping. And on the judge’s bench, faintly carved into the wood, were three words:
“Court still sits.”
