Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - The Bleeding Model in Lab Ten and the Secrets That Got Mister Haddock Removed #66

Episode Date: August 7, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #bleedingmodel #labten #misterhaddock #darksecrets #hauntedlab  In Lab Ten, a model starts bleeding without explanation, uncovering hidden truths and causing the dismissal of Mister Haddock, the lead scientist.  horrorstories reddithorrorstories scarystories horrorstory creepypasta horrortales bleedingmodel labten misterhaddock darksecrets hauntedlab sciencehorror mystery horrorfiction creepy experiment paranormal

Mr. Haddock was always my least favorite teacher in grade 10. Balding, stov-faced little man with a ratty ponytail behind his near-naked pink skull. He was the only teacher I never saw smile or laugh, even around other teachers or adults. He was never even nice when parents came to visit, never had that put on warmth most teachers do. With his diminutive stature and small miserable face, he looked like one of the seven dwarves from Snow White, if one of the seven dwarves were a closet alky. He'd never let you go to the

bathroom during class, whether it was an emergency or not, even if you were a girl. And if you requested an extension for an assignment, whether it was because you were sick, someone in your family had died, or you had to be excused for your soccer or football game, he would just respond with, no, and that's tough. As you can imagine, I wasn't the only kid at John Haggart High School who harbored a grudge for the surly little troll of the J.H. High Science Department. What really made the situation worse was that Mr. Haddock taught science, a class in which I had to excel if I wanted to pursue my post-secondary dream of studying to become a veterinarian. Cliche, I know, but I've always loved animals and wanted desperately to understand and help them

as best I could. That was another sticking point between Mr. Haddock and I. He refused to give good marks no matter how hard you tried or how well you followed his instructions. When you give me something good enough to get an A in university, I'll give you an A, he'd grown, his tired refrain to any nagging student. Like that was a reasonable bar to set for a high school junior or freshman. Just my luck, Mr. Haddock also taught grade 11 biology, another necessary course on my journey to guiding sick and dying pets into the afterlife. And that's another thing about Mr. Haddock that bothered me, he cleared.

hated his job. I'd always planned on becoming a teacher as a backup plan, especially since I'd always loved school. I was always on the honor roll, on at least three school teams, in multiple clubs, elected student rep for each grade I was in until making school president in grade 12 and would later be valedictorian. But Mr. Haddock always acted like he'd rather be doing anything other than teach at our school. Like this job was somehow beneath him. Just for context, Haggard High School is in the Meadowville neighborhood of Akazuin, the safest city in Ontario and one of the safest places in all of Canada, which would put in running for safest metropolitan area on the planet. It's a bustling suburban town with lots to do, especially being so close to Toronto.

Our school is neck and neck with Caramel Mountain Secondary for National Reputation and University acceptances. We have one of the best hockey teams, one of the best arts and music programs, and are among the top performers in math and literacy. Our building is the typical squat, two-floor, lengthwise cinderblock affair, but our hallways are adorned with gorgeous wall murals painted by the art students, festooned with colorful and accurate diaramas of the Globe Theatre, Greek Coliseums, and DNA models. So why did Mr. Haddock act like he was stocking the shelves at a grocery store? Why did he treat us like we were all riff-raf, as my uncle John would say? The last straw that broke this camera back came when he docked me 10% for being two days late on an assignment. My grandmother was in the

hospital from a massive stroke, which is what caused me to be late. My mother had made sure to call reception to explain the situation on the very first day I was away from school. And even after I provided him with two letters, one from my parents, the other from the hospital, and even though all my other teachers accepted my homework without penalty, Mr. Ian Warren Haddock refused to budge. Look, he grunted, visibly cornered behind his particle board desk, me standing before him with hands on hips, pleading my case. Demanding an explanation. Look, I've already imputed the mark into the database and sent it out to the department head. I can't change it right now.

It'll make me look bad. I could feel my eyes grow moist. How could he do this to me? Me. Jennifer Wongley, Grade 10 student rep and third. future savior of all furry four-legged creatures. Feebly, without meeting my misty gaze, he mumbled, at least your grands alive, right? Isn't that all that matters, using my grandmother's stroke against me? Trying to browbeat me away from demanding what was mine by guilting me

into not appreciating my own family. At this, I didn't yell, didn't storm off. Didn't even bother complaining to my parents or the principal's office. Instead, I coolly saturday. down at my lab table and began plotting my petty revenge against Mr. Haddock. I knew all about the prank's kids pull on their teachers. The homemade stink bomb. The head in the jar. The dreaded toothpick in the door lock. I wasn't about to bother with anything as cute or clever. During the lunch period, when I knew Mr. Haddock was two kilometers away having a smoke near Meadow Woods Park, I would creep into the lab and simply swipe all his test papers and homework. I knew he wouldn't bother keeping them secure, and even with the gas valves,

there was a good chance the dope would leave the laboratory unlocked, he'd done so several times before. In so many ways, it would be the perfect revenge, he'd have to admit to leaving the room unsupervised and unsecured, going against school policy and regulation, landing him in hot water with the office. Maybe even resulting in his eventual termination, and when he asked the students to redo the test, someone would eventually complain to the school or a parent, resulting in him admitting that he'd lost the test papers, which would likewise get him in trouble, or at least so I figured at the time. He'd know what it was like to be punished for something that was not his fault. At least, not exactly his fault.

To have every excuse in the world, only for each of them to fall on stone-deaf ears. It was perfect. I just had to be careful. I knew there were cameras in the hallways, but as far as I could tell, there was no surveillance in the classrooms themselves. I snuck inside the unmanned lab at a quarter past noon. With the lights out and in the scant fluorescent glow bleeding in from the hallway through the open door, the lab looked almost eerie, the long tables, I wash station, beakers, tongs and burners redolent of the abode of Dr. Jekyll in the movies. As though the lab were in preparation of some macabre, unnecessary surgery. But maybe that was just my imagination running away with me. I crept toward Mr. Haddock's desk. Sure enough, there were the unguarded test papers, lain plainly on the blotter.

Armed with the papers and loads of time before the vodka-reaking deadbeat returned, I felt compelled to poke around. Perhaps I'd find a pack of smokes or a Mickey of cheap wry lying around, getting Mr. Haddock into some real trouble. My curiosity peaked, I rounded the corner at the back and entered the supply closet, placing the test papers to the side. It was where they kept the textbooks, beakers, bunts and burners, and items meant to be hidden from teenage eyes. But no matter how hard I squinted or how furiously I rummaged through the boxes and bins, there were no incriminating objects for me to find. Not even a single cigarette butt. I was about to be. I was about to to turn and leave with my pillaged bounty when I spotted the slightest of movements out of the

corner of my eye. Stardled, I held my breath and jumped a bit before peering harder to the back of the closet. There, the slight movement or trick of the light remained, just perceptible in the dark little room. It was so slight, a dribbling motion, that at first my brain registered a lava lamp. But that didn't make sense, why would there be a lava lamp in a science lab? much less one plugged in on a storage closet shelf. I advanced further to inspect what lay at the back and that's when I saw it. The most eldritch or horrors, like something straight from a pulp magazine. It was a two-foot anatomical model, showing the muscles and internal organs from the small intestine to the eyeballs.

A jarring sight to begin with, but this particular model, it was bleeding. I mean, actively bleeding, pulsating with blood that dripped from red crowsyed. and apertures, staining the beige metal platform on which it stood. My mind whirled at the sickening visual before me. How could that be? Wasn't the model made of silicone? Not flesh or bone, surely. Unbelieving, I examined the ghastly little model, looking around to find some sort of

power cord, certain this was some optical illusion or trick of the light. No such luck. As best I could tell, this was nothing but a regular artificial artificial. official figurine. No means of moving, or in this case bleeding, on it own. At my wits' end to try and explain this thing before me, adrenaline barreling through my veins, I deigned to touch the scarlet flow coming off it, getting summit on my fingertips. The wet sensation was enough to flip my stomach, but when I brought the smeared fingers to my nose, I discovered the unmistakable metallic odor of blood. It was real. As real as it could be. I looked down, and I looked down,

and saw the dark liquid begin to drip over the shelf's edge onto the floor. None from scalp to chin, I peered back up at the vignacious, pulsating face, at the fake blue's eyes stuck to the front of the skull. The eyes which had somehow remained uncovered by the pouring crimson. They had been staring blindly away from me, but then, at that very moment, they came alive and swiveled around to glare at me. I shrieked before turning and fleeing from the lab, leaving Mr. Haddock's papers on the shelf where I'd lain them. That night I couldn't sleep. And the next day I couldn't eat. Couldn't chat with my friends or join them at any of our clubs. I just couldn't get the image of that bleeding anatomical model out of my mind's eye.

And I couldn't quiet the questions racing through my bewildered brain, those compelling echoes ditting off the inner walls of my skull. How could a silicone model's inner working cause it to bleed like that? Or appear to bleed? Why did the fluid smell so unmistakably like blood? Why did I only see it bleeding like that after class had been dismissed? In the name of God, why was something like that in the science lab at all? Resolved on getting to the bottom of this, I first had to be sure that what I saw wasn't a mere figment of my imagination. To prove I wasn't going crazy, I recruited my friend Jacqueline to come along with me the next lunch break, when Mr. Haddock had gone out for his smoke. Having not been told the exact reason for sneaking into the science lab,

Jackie giggled as I towed her along, inferring in whispers that our secret mission was owing to a crush I wanted to impart on her away from prying eyes and ears. But when we arrived, the lab was closed. The yellow-on-gray stainless steel doors were shut, the wooden doors stopped lying on the floor, discarded. I tried the handles, but it was no use. The hygienic doors wouldn't bud. The Mr. Haddock hadn't bothered locking up the lab since early September. Did he notice his test papers had been moved and got spooked? Of course, Jacqueline balked at my expense, demanding I just tell her what this was all about. She then grew petulant when I insisted it was nothing, refusing, in her mind, to include her in what she was certain was a juicy bit of gossip.

We were then startled by a gruff voice growling behind us, you two better move along, startled out of our skin, we both spun on our heels, finding the groundskeeper, Mr. Fanu, standing before us. He'd come up on us without a sound. He was a short compact man with a shapeless face behind black-framed spectacles, today wearing his usual navy blue cover-holes. From his tan leather weightlifters belt hung a ring of what looked to be a thousand keys, like a silvery fist by his waist. You shouldn't be hanging out here now, he grunted, his voice horse and low like dead leaves in the wind. He then proceeded into the mantra of all on or off-duty school employees patrolling the halls,

telling us to either go to the CAF or outside until the next bell. Neither intimidated or especially servile, Jacqueline droned her acquiescence and shuffled off without me, rolling her eyes before getting completely out of sight. Still with some resolve for my mission, I lingered. But what remained of my gumption withered under Mr. Fannu's icy parental stare? But as I walked away, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the janitor had not departed the hallway. He was standing on the spot like a sentry, presumably watching me go. As if he were guarding the lab.

The hairs on the back of my neck sufficiently stood on end, I turned around, finding that he was not staring after me, but rather facing the laboratory doors, as though waiting to be let in. Lastly, I noticed his hands, which were ringing and wiping themselves on a dirty black rag. On his hands, unmistakably, was a shiny, visibly wet red liquid. Blood? Terrified, fixated, but nonetheless afraid of being spotted, I turned the corner into the adjacent stairwell. But instead of descending the steps to the main floor, I waited. When I returned to the hallway, poking my head out but not my torso from around the corner,

I saw that one of the doors to the lab was ajar, and the lights within were now on. Mr. Fano was no longer there. On rubbery legs, I inched over to the cracked door and peered inside. Squeezing myself in, first my head then shoulders, then one limb at a time, I felt my heart thundering in my chest, expecting at any moment to be pulled aside by an irate Mr. Haddock who would proceed to chide me. But instead, all I found was the empty, brightly lit room, and a maddening odor of assaulting my nostrils. It was the common coppery smell of blood from before but now fetid and

miry like a century-old field of cow manure. Like something excreted not from anything as natural as cattle or other livestock but from something otherworldly. From something evil. I pinched my nostrils and breathed through my nose but that hardly worked to STYMY the Eldrich Stench. But now my senses were alerted to another disturbance, a bizarrely pleasant sound issuing from the supply closet. The sound of waves. Reminding me of my last summer vacation at Myrtle Beach, I heard the distinct lapping of waves crashing onto a sandy shore. Oh sure, it might have just been from a video or an audio file, but something about the enormity and clarity of the sound was indisputably real. I then had tinnitus in my left ear, and had to steady myself on one of the workbenches from a palpable

loss of equilibrium. It was as though I'd suddenly become sick. Or as if I'd been transferred from reality into a dream. It was then that I realized the sound of the waves was no longer emanating from the closet, but was all around me, churning around my head, sending me into a dizzy spell. The putrid, rust smell was now overwrought, and again, Mr. Fanna was nowhere in sight. The crashing of the waves was then intermingled with a shrieking sound. It was small at first then swelled to a piercing wail. It wasn't female or even human.

Yes, yes, I was certain it was an animal's cry. Like a horse whinnying. Yes, exactly like the sound a horse would make. The voice was pained and sorrowing, as though the beast of burden were being whipped or driven into the ground. It was so terrible, so pitiful that my throat seized up and my heart ached. My mind throbbing from the assaulting soundscape swirling around, or perhaps inside, my head, I staggered toward the supply closet, grasping at stools and bench tables as I did so

to not plummet to the floor. As I did, I wondered if this was what it was like to be on drugs. I was just about to reach my hand out for the steel door handle, when all at once the encircling cacophony stopped, leaving a deafening quiet over the room. Backpedling, tonight is still in one ear, I regained my balance and stood up straight, standing stationary until a sudden crash from behind me, like a stool being knocked over, sent me flying out of the room and down the hallway to the stairwell. I was so terrified, so confused, I ran home without asking for leave, resulting in a two-day suspension. I was informed by one of the vice principals that if I was suspended again, I'd lose my student-rep seat. But that would be the last of my troubles.

After being allowed back in school, I discovered my science class was moved to another room. Also, I never saw Mr. Haddock again. First, there were a string of substitute teachers, some subbing internally from the science department, like Mr. Abruso who taught grade 12 physics. Some were unfamiliar faces. All of them assigned nothing but work straight from the textbook or divvied out worksheets two or three grades below us. But eventually, much to the relief of my hovercraft, high expectation-laden parents,

we were assigned a full-time teacher, Miss Goldman, after the Christmas break. Miss Goldman was young, energetic, and very knowledgeable. Most of my class was very happy to have her, especially as a replacement to gin-reaking Ian Haddock. Conversely, I was bricked up with anxiety, ruminating fretfully on what had happened to him. Had he really been let go? Was this somehow my fault? Or did it have something to do with that bleeding anatomical model I'd found in the supply closet. The one that had been replaced by another far less gory silicone figurine and had

not been seen since that fateful day. And on what on earth was the cause of all those noises I'd heard the last time? What did those have to do with Haddock or the bleeding model? Worse was that sound I heard that had cut through the muffling waves. The sound of the whinnying horse, the torment and desperation playing in that voice. I know this won't make sense to you reading this, but the sound haunted me. Made me tear up every time I thought of it. The thought that something so cruel could be happening to animal here at J.H. High, just, just drove me insane.

Eventually, either driven by guilt for Mr. Haddock's firing or the compulsion seated by that hideous apparition, I went to visit the science department office. But as it turned out, they had meant to speak to me. Mr. Schmelling, the head of the science department who taught grade 11 chemistry, told me he'd been waiting for me when I arrived. This was a bit unnerving since I'd never had a class with him and also owing to the fact that he had neither a warm nor jocular demeanor. Bald and bespectacled with tufts of iron gray around his ears, a rotund physique and wobbling gait, he reminded most students of a cartoon villain than an approachable teacher. He motioned me to

an empty seat with a curt nod of his head. So, Jennifer, dear, he began in his icebox timbre. I've been meaning to speak with you for some time. He then began to plow through the typical teacher questions, usually reserved for guidance counselors during one-on-one consultations. He then got to the meat of the conversation. It's come to my attention recently that you've been going into the grade 10 science lab by yourself after lesson periods. I hope that that isn't true. Frozen in my seat on the concrete hard plastic chair, a creeping fear waxing down my head to my nape, nothing and made no motion with my head or shoulders. I even kept my hands still inside my lap. Relieving me of his glacial blue stare, Mr. Schmelling clucked his tongue. I suppose you

might have seen something which you shouldn't have, he said. My neck now a bed of bristled hairs. Some test papers, perhaps. Some student progress reports Mr. Haddock left lying around, I squinted hard and tilted my head. Another suspension or even expulsion. for snooping around was the very least of my worries. What was this? A fishing expedition? Or a veiled threat? Mr. Schmelling carried on, perhaps you saw something in the supply closet? Something that startled you. Caused your imagination to run away with you. My eyelids peeled back inside my skull, the whites bulging from the sockets. He knew. He scanned me over, a look that was not lustful but hungry and searching, making my skin crawl. Did you tell anyone what you saw?

He asked after a long pause. For the first time I answered him, shaking my head feverishly from side to side, my hair tremulous, strands slapping around my chin. Mr. Schmelling pulled back into his swivel chair, the metal spine creaking, evidently pleased with my answer. His furry stubs for fingers laced across his ample abdomen. If other people learned about what you think you saw, we'd have no choice but to suspend you for violating school safety regulations. Or worse. You wouldn't want that, would you? Being such a serious and hardworking student? No, I didn't think so, my dear. So, since you've been so good and we'd hate for you to get behind in your studies, this'll just be our little secret. Okay, dear, and so concluded the

bizarre saga of Mr. Haddock and the bleeding anatomy model in the science lab. I never found out the exact cause of Haddock's dismissal, though the school used the usual cryptic phrasing of him moving on and finding work elsewhere. Some kids told me they saw him in one of the local pubs around Lakeshore, testing out a few concoctions of ocean spray and abseil. I haven't told anyone about what I saw, as per my agreement with Mr. Schmelling. At least, I haven't until now. Perhaps he's right, maybe my imagination simply ran away from me that fateful afternoon alone

in the supply closet. But then why swear me to secrecy? What did he care what I told people I saw? Why was that laboratory never used again and was all but boarded up? That being said, I would still see red speckles and smears of blood on Mr. Fanna's hands and cover-all some days, I would still sometimes catch a whiff of something coppery and fed it in the hallways, and every so often, I would hear the uncanny crashing of waves, accompanying by the strangled whinnying of a horse, emanating from the now empty grade 10 science lab.