By AI-ChatGPT40-T.Chr.-Human Synthesis-01 February 2025.


The train ride to Black Hollow Reform School was long and silent, except for the rhythmic clatter of the tracks and the occasional sniffle from another boy sitting across from Elijah. The boy looked about his age, maybe a little younger, his small hands clenched into fists on his lap. Neither of them spoke.

The two guards sitting nearby, their hands resting lazily on their batons, made sure of that. Elijah wasn’t supposed to be here. He hadn’t stolen anything. But truth didn’t matter when a white man pointed his finger, and a Black boy stood accused. The judge barely looked at him before sending him away, his mama’s screams still ringing in his ears as the bailiff dragged him from the courtroom.

The school appeared on the horizon like a scar against the trees. The long dirt road leading up to it was lined with fences topped with barbed wire, and the building itself was low and sprawling, its wooden planks the color of old bones. As soon as they arrived, a man with a leather belt coiled around his fist yanked him from the train, his breath hot and sour.

“You listen, boy,” the man said. “Ain’t no use cryin’ or beggin’. You work, you keep your head down, and maybe you’ll walk out of here one day.” He grinned, showing yellow teeth. “Or maybe not.”

Elijah said nothing as they stripped him of his clothes, replaced them with a thin, itchy uniform, and shaved his head. They led him through a narrow hallway where the air smelled of sweat and something deeper, something rotten, like wet earth disturbed after years of stillness.

At night, the whispers started.

He lay on his thin mattress, staring at the ceiling, when he first heard them—a low, murmuring chorus, like wind pushing through the cracks of the wooden walls. He turned his head, thinking one of the other boys was awake, but all he saw were shadowed outlines, the slow rise and fall of chests in sleep.

Then the scratching began.

It came from beneath his bed, the faint sound of nails scraping against wood, like something was trapped under the floorboards. Elijah held his breath. The scratching stopped, replaced by a long, slow exhale of air, as if someone were lying just inches below him, breathing through the cracks.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

The next day, another boy disappeared.

They never announced it. The bed was simply empty by morning, the blanket neatly folded, the space where a boy had once slept now nothing more than a void. No one dared ask what happened. No one ever did.

But Elijah saw the missing boy that night.

He was standing by the window, pale in the moonlight, his eyes dark and hollow. His lips moved, whispering something Elijah couldn’t hear. And then, slowly, he turned his head—too slowly, as if his bones no longer worked the way they should. His mouth opened, and the whisper grew louder, rising and twisting, a voice from a throat that no longer belonged to the living.

“Run.”

Elijah’s breath caught. He squeezed his hands into fists. “I—I can’t.”

The boy’s head tilted. The whisper became a hiss.

“They’re watching.”

Then he was gone, fading into the darkness as if he had never been there at all.

Elijah didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the unknown pressing down on him.

The next morning, Warden Vance stood at the front of the mess hall, surveying them with cold, snake-like eyes. “Boys who misbehave,” he said slowly, “don’t stay here long.”

His gaze met Elijah’s.

The whisper from the night before echoed in his mind.

Run.

But where could he go when the school itself was alive, when the swamps swallowed boys whole, and when the dead were just as trapped as the living?

Elijah kept his head down for the rest of the day, his hands shaking as he shoveled grits into his mouth. The other boys ate in silence, their eyes empty, their bodies thin and hunched like beaten dogs. No one mentioned the missing boy. No one ever did.

The sun burned high in the sky as they were marched outside for work duty. The land behind the school stretched for miles, wild and unkempt, a tangle of swamp and cypress trees, the water black and still. Elijah was assigned to dig, his hands blistering around the wooden handle of his shovel. They were told it was for drainage, but the holes were deep—too deep. Graves, maybe.

He kept working, sweat running down his face, dirt clinging to his skin. The guards watched from the shade, their rifles resting against their legs. No one ran. They all knew better. The swamp didn’t let you go, even if you managed to slip past the fences.

A shadow moved between the trees.

Elijah stiffened, his fingers tightening around his shovel. He glanced at the other boys, but no one else reacted. He turned his head back toward the woods, squinting against the glare of the sun.

There. A figure, pale and still, standing just beyond the treeline.

It was the boy from last night.

His clothes were torn, his face streaked with something dark. He lifted a thin, trembling hand and pointed.

Elijah’s stomach twisted.

The ground beneath his feet felt different now.

He knelt, pressing his fingers against the dirt, and realized—this wasn’t just any patch of land. It was soft, disturbed. Something was buried here.

A sharp whistle cut through the air.

"Get up, Carter!" one of the guards barked. "Move faster, or I'll give you a reason to!"

Elijah scrambled to his feet, but the whisper was back, curling around his ears like breath on cold glass.

They’re here. Under you.

That night, he lay awake again, his muscles aching, his skin raw. The whispers filled the room. Louder now. Urgent.

The floor beneath his bed groaned.

Elijah sat up, heart pounding.

The boards shifted.

Slowly, carefully, he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. The other boys were still asleep, their breathing deep and steady. He reached down, pressing his fingers against the wood.

It was loose.

A shiver ran through him.

With one last glance at the sleeping forms around him, he wedged his fingers beneath the board and pulled. It came up with a soft creak, revealing only darkness beneath.

Then, movement.

A pale hand shot out, grasping his wrist.

Elijah bit down on a scream, his whole body seizing as icy fingers clutched his skin. The hand was thin, the skin stretched tight over bone, the fingernails cracked and dirty.

The whispers grew louder.

"Help us," a voice rasped.

Elijah yanked his arm back, scrambling away as the hand sank back into the darkness. The floorboard fell into place with a dull thud.

His breath came in gasps. His pulse pounded in his ears.

He had to get out.

But the dead weren’t just whispering anymore.

They were reaching.

The next morning, Elijah’s wrist still burned where the hand had grabbed him. A faint mark, like bruised fingerprints, lingered on his skin. He pulled his sleeve down to cover it as the guards herded them outside for roll call. The heat pressed heavy against his back, but all he could feel was the chill of that touch.

Boys vanished at Black Hollow, but no one ever talked about it. The dead, though—they wanted to be heard.

“Elijah,” a voice whispered.

He turned sharply. The boy beside him, Henry, didn’t move. His eyes stayed forward, empty and dull. None of the other boys had spoken.

“Elijah,” the voice came again, closer this time.

The air thickened, pressing against his ears like a storm about to break. He felt something behind him. Not the guards. Something colder.

Then a hand brushed his shoulder.

“Elijah, step forward,” the warden’s voice rang out.

Elijah’s stomach dropped.

Slowly, he stepped out of line. The other boys didn’t look at him. That was the rule. You never looked at the one being called forward.

The warden’s boots crunched against the dirt as he approached. “You been actin’ strange, boy.” His breath smelled of tobacco and rot. “That a problem?”

Elijah shook his head, keeping his eyes on the ground.

The warden leaned in close. “Then why you twitchin’ like a rabbit?” His fingers dug into Elijah’s chin, forcing him to look up. The warden’s eyes were pale, almost colorless, like something that had never seen the sun. “You hear things, Carter?”

Elijah’s pulse pounded.

“No, sir.”

The warden studied him for a long moment, then smirked. “Good. ’Cause only liars and fools hear ghosts. And liars don’t last long.”

He let go of Elijah’s chin with a shove and turned back to the others. “Get to work!”

Elijah let out a slow breath, his heart hammering. But as the boys marched toward the fields, something caught his eye—a figure at the edge of the woods.

The dead boy.

He was watching, silent and still. But this time, he wasn’t alone.

More figures stood behind him. Pale faces. Hollow eyes. Their mouths moved, but no sound came out.

Elijah clenched his fists.

The dead weren’t just whispering anymore.

They were calling him.

And this time, he was going to listen.

The Hollow School is not just a story of supernatural horror—it is a meditation on memory, injustice, and the voices that history tries to silence.

At its core, the story explores how institutions built on cruelty and oppression do not merely punish the living but trap the dead, forcing them to linger in the places where their suffering was ignored. Elijah, like many before him, enters Black Hollow as a boy cast aside by a world unwilling to hear his truth. But unlike others, he learns to listen—to the whispers, to the warnings, to the restless souls who refuse to be forgotten.

The ghosts in The Hollow School symbolize the weight of history, the unmarked graves of those erased by cruelty and power. They are not simply specters; they are the echoes of injustice, proof that no act of violence ever truly fades. Elijah’s journey is one of awakening—not just to the supernatural, but to the reality that survival alone is not enough. The dead demand remembrance. The past demands reckoning.

But the story also suggests something deeper: that truth, even when buried, will always find a way to rise. The voices of the forgotten will seep through the cracks, claw their way from the shadows, and refuse to be silenced. In this way, Elijah’s role is not just to escape, but to bear witness—to carry the weight of those who came before him and ensure that their suffering does not disappear into the swamp, swallowed by time and fear.

Ultimately, The Hollow School asks a haunting question: how many histories lie beneath our feet, whispering, waiting, demanding to be heard? And when they finally speak—will we have the courage to listen?

The End.

Coercion and humiliation at Geitmyra school

"Oh, Geita. It was a horrible place to be," an elderly man replies when asked about Geitmyra School, Oslo's municipal school of coercion.

A TRUE STORY FROM GEITMYRA BOYSCHOOL.

Before 1945, Geitmyra Boyschool functioned as a correctional institution for troubled or orphaned boys, where discipline was strict, and conditions were often harsh. Many of these reform schools across Norway and Europe followed rigid, punitive systems that left deep scars on those who passed through them. Stories from such institutions often include elements of neglect, forced labor, and even abuse—creating lifelong trauma for many former students.

The winter wind cut through the bare branches outside the walls of Geitmyra Boyschool, a bleak, gray building on the outskirts of Oslo. It had once been a farm, long before the city swallowed the land around it. Now, it was a place where unwanted boys were sent—those who had no families, those deemed unruly, or simply those who had the misfortune of being poor. The world outside did not ask what happened within its walls, and the boys inside quickly learned that no one would come to save them.

Erik was one of them.

He had not been sent there for any crime but for disobedience. His father, now remarried, had sided with his new wife, who resented Erik's presence and spoke ill of his mother. When Erik refused to accept her cruelty in silence, his father saw no other option but to send him away. At fifteen, years old, Erik had no say in the matter.

Life at Geitmyra was cold, both in temperature and in spirit. The walls were thick with the smell of damp stone and boiled potatoes, the only food they were ever given. The boys were woken before dawn, made to scrub floors, chop wood, and march in stiff lines to lessons that taught them obedience rather than knowledge. Speaking out of turn earned a beating. Showing weakness made you a target.

There were whispers of boys who had tried to escape before, their names never spoken again. Some said they had made it out and disappeared into the city. Others claimed they had been caught and sent somewhere worse. Erik knew only one thing—he could not stay.

He had been watching. Counting the steps of the night watchman, noting when the doors were left unlocked for deliveries. He had mapped out the outer walls, the places where they were weakest, where the ice formed slick sheets over the stones. And he had found an opportunity.

The loft of the building was a place few visited. It was cluttered with forgotten items, discarded shoes, and tattered uniforms too worn to be mended. There, an old woman, responsible for washing and mending the common clothes, worked in near silence. She had been there longer than anyone could remember, her hands rough and eyes tired. Sometimes, she would mutter to herself, but she never spoke to the boys unless necessary. Erik had watched her carefully, noting that she never locked the side door after her work was done.

It was a moonless night when he made his move. He slipped from his cot, avoiding the creaking boards as he tiptoed across the dormitory. Outside, the wind howled through the trees, covering the sound of his breath. He had no coat, only the thin fabric of his uniform, but the cold was a small price for freedom.

He ran.

Through the dark courtyard, past the kitchens where the embers of the evening fire still smoldered. He reached the wall, his fingers numb as he gripped the rough stone. His feet scrambled for purchase. He pulled himself up, heart pounding, breath held.

A shout rang out behind him.

For a moment, he froze. Then, with every ounce of strength he had, he threw himself over the wall. The fall knocked the air from his lungs, but there was no time to stop. He pushed himself up and ran into the forest beyond, the sounds of pursuit growing fainter behind him.

He did not know where he was going, only that anywhere was better than where he had been.

And so Erik disappeared into the night, into a world that would never know his name, but one where he could finally choose his own path.

He ran until his legs ached, until the frost bit at his skin, and then, at last, he reached the small house of his uncle, a man who had always looked at him with quiet understanding. His uncle did not ask questions. Instead, he made arrangements.

Within a week, Erik found himself on the deck of an old steamer bound for Africa. He was a deck boy now, one of the youngest aboard, working long days scrubbing, hauling, and learning the ways of the sea. It was hard, grueling work, but it was freedom. The seven months he spent on that ship shaped him—taught him resilience, discipline, and the quiet strength of those who live by the tides. When he returned, he was no longer just a boy who had escaped.

He was someone else entirely.

The End.

Geitmyra school

Geitmyra School was a school that was established in 1899 as a municipal compulsory school in accordance with the Guardianship Council Act of 1896, which required municipalities to establish compulsory schools. The law came into force on 1 January 1900, and the municipal compulsory school was then a reality. The school rented premises in Asker until 1904 , but then moved into premises at Geitmyrsveien 62 B in Kristiania . Children from all over the country could be sent to the municipal compulsory school in Oslo by decision of the Guardianship Council or by the school boards.

The compulsory school had room for thirty to forty boys aged seven to fourteen. According to the Report on the Municipality of Oslo for the years 1912–1947, the boys were taught elementary school subjects, in addition to household chores, handicrafts and gardening. The boys themselves built up a sports field at the school. According to the Guardianship Act, the stay at the compulsory school was not to exceed one year. On average, the boys were at school for 258 days during this period. But for many, the school stay was only a short stopover between an orphanage and further institutional stay.

In line with the Child Welfare Act of 1954, the school was converted from a compulsory school to an observation school. In the 1970s, major changes occurred. The new principal from 1973 ensured that the barbed wire fences around the school were torn down. Until then, the system had been that the students were isolated from their surroundings.

Geitmyra observation school is described in the County Governor's investigation of orphanages in Oslo in the period 1954–1993. Here they conclude that the majority of the children in the orphanages were unable to benefit from the teaching and follow-up they received at Geitmyra School. Conditions related to school attendance and meals, as well as physical abuse and lack of emotional care at the institution, were reprehensible.

From 1975 the school was converted to Lindern Special School. The school opened for admission of both boys and girls. Today the operation continues in Lysaker as Sollerudstranda School.

School history

• 1899–1904: Kristiania municipal compulsory school for boys (Asker Seminarium in Bærum)
• 1904: Kristiania municipal compulsory school for boys (Geitmyrsveien 62 B)
• 1950: Geitmyra School (boys' school, Thulstrupsgate 3)
• 1955–1975: Geitmyra observation school (Thulstrupsgate 3)
• 1975–1990: Lindern school/Lindern SPU (Thulstrupsgate 3)
• 1990–: Sollerudstranda School, Lysaker.

Geitmyra reform school

Introduction

The theme of this thesis is Geitmyra Reform School with a focus on the view of upbringing and punishment. The idea for the thesis came from a list of suggestions sent by historian Johanne Bergkvist at the Oslo City Archives. After reviewing sources from Geitmyra school, the curiosity was so great that the choice became easy. It was also in this context that the narrowing of the year became necessary.

I will deal with the years 1904 to 1907. In 1904, the forced school was moved from Asker Seminarium in Bærum to Gjetemyrsveien no. 62 in Vestre Aker. The year 1907 is in this context highlighted because at this time an additional law of 17 June 1907 was passed that extended the maximum period of stay at the forced school from six months to one year. Some material after 1907 will also be used to see whether the additional law was used. The time perspective will therefore be from 1904 to 1910.

In this thesis, I will examine the view of upbringing and punishment in the sources from the compulsory school. The student records will be used here as the primary source. Concepts To understand which children were sent to the compulsory school, we must look at the concepts of degenerate and neglected. The source material uses these concepts and I therefore choose to use them in the thesis. These are concepts that have been used to describe those who were considered to need a more extensive upbringing.

To describe in more detail who was considered to be degenerate or neglected, we can look at the Guardianship Act's three categories. If the decision to send a child to the compulsory school was made by the Guardianship Board, this applied to those who had committed a criminal offence but were under the age of criminal responsibility.

If someone was placed by the school board, this applied to children who neglected school or exhibited bad behaviour. This was mainly about truancy. The third category concerned children who were considered to need a temporary stay. 2 In educational literature from the beginning of the 20th century until our own time, the working-class child is often referred to as the "neglected child".3

1 Act on the Treatment of Neglected Children of 6 June 1896. The more common term is the Guardianship Act and will be used in this thesis.
2 Report on the Municipality of Kristiania for the years 1887-1911. Kristiania. J. Chr. Gundersens Boktrykkeri, 1914,