Here is the plot:

Tired of his current job and life, Phineus heads for a smaller town where he dreams life is going to be easier, idealizing how smaller is better.  Not adjusting quickly enough to his new home and job, he begins to doubt his decision to leave the big city.  Phineus is always remembering the glory days at his previous job.  He begins to criticize everything that goes on at his new school and fantasizes about the past.  Was it really as good as he remembers or is he not giving this new job a chance.  Visited by a ghost from the past, Phineus get a new perspective on life.- learning that the grass is not always greener on the other side.

I heard the creaking of the stairs, I turned and saw one of the primary teachers coming.  She was close to my aged with short brown hair.  She had a slender build and was average height.  I was unsure of her name, so I turned my head back to the director and listened to her explain severe weather procedures.  I heard something about putting all of the students in the basement but didn't catch it all.  I glanced around, Would all the kids fit down here.  I was too busy thinking about what I had gotten myself into, what was I thinking? EDIT HERE    That's what it is and I guarantee you nobody in this town truly understands what this school is about.  It's a status symbol, a keep my kid out of the public school option.  I justified the change by romanticizing about working with smaller classroom sizes and how open and free private schools could be- not restricted by strict state standards and ineffective teaching methods- institutionalized, is that what I called my last job?  Institutionalized charter schools.  I will be free to do as I please.
"Are you sure it's a good idea to show the new teacher our dungeon?" the primary teacher asked as she joined us toward the back of the basement.
"He'll have to see it sometime," the director responded and then droned on about the weather here in the city.
I've seen worse, I commented in my head, I didn't want to interrupt the director, she seemed like she was enjoying this mono-conversation.  I remember the old storeroom at my last school.  It was a large room next to the boiler and electrical room.  It amazed me that in all the years I had been there that the fire marshal hadn't written us up about it.  The room had four giant five tiered shelves in the middle of the room.  Each teacher had one shelf.  Mine was on the very top.  I guess they figured I was young, I could handle climbing.  I literally had to climb, well I guess I didn't have to, I could have gone into the boiler room and retrieved a step ladder.  But I didn't.  I use the shelf next to me to climb to the top.  Every wall in the room had junk piled next to it that spilled out into the aisle making it difficult to maneuver through the room, and piled way past my head.  There were supplies from years ago still sitting unused in the storage room.  The crazy thing that I never understood was instead of not asking for the supplies for a year while the extras where used up, teachers continued asking for more supplies.  When I inherited my classroom, and therefore getting a self with it in the storage room, I found that a quarter of my self was stacked with tissue boxes- remember I had the top shelf, so it was only the ceiling that limited the stacks. Guess what I didn't ask students to bring that next year?  Actually, I believe it was two years that tissues were not on my supply list.  In the back corner were brand new materials that sat boxed up and unused.  Sad, I thought one time.  How many schools can't afford materials and here these sit.  What did I do, I raided it.  Took what I could use and more.  The summer I left, the administrator had had enough and shared that the room was going to be cleaned.  Clean it or lose it, he said.
"Don't think too lowly of us, at least we know where everything is," the primary teacher brought me back to the room.  She smiled and went back upstairs.
"Well, that's about if for down here," the administrator said, "shall we head back upstairs?"  She didn't wait for my answer, but turned and headed upstairs.
Sure,  I took one last look around and followed her.   

I said goodnight to the last teacher.  It was raining outside.  One of those gentle fall showers, not the world is going to end pelting type, but a slow steady drizzle.  It had been like that all day come to think of it because I tried to avoid going over to the main building.  Every time I was about to head over, I made it to the door, looked out, and turned around stacking what needed to be taken over on the counter next to the door.  By the end of the day there was a pretty large stack waiting to be taken over.  When I finally packed my bags to head over, I threw my bag over my shoulder, grabbed the stack, ducked my head, and headed out.
I turned back toward the stairs to the basement, flipped the switch, and headed downstairs.  When I reached the bottom I placed the materials back on the shelf where I took them off earlier that morning and turned to go back upstairs.  Before I took a step toward the stairs, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a flash of light coming from the small basement bathroom.  I thought it strange because there were no windows so it couldn't be lightning coming from outside.  I turned and headed over to the bathroom.  The door was cracked open just enough to let a bit of light escape. I opened the small door and the flashing stopped.  It was difficult to see what was inside with only the small glow of the other room's light-bulb.  What little light there was spilled past my shoulders and into the room.  I could only see the front of the room, unable to see the far wall.  I reached for the light switch and gave it a flick.  It was one of those old ones that protruded from the wall and with age stuck so that it took a bit of effort in the flicking of the finger.  Nothing happened.  I turned it down and then back up again.  Nothing.  Great, did the bulb burn out?  I decided to leave it alone since I really didn't need to use the room.  I turned back around to head upstairs and it flicked on and off again.  I spun around on my heels.  What? I thought to myself catching the tail end of the flash.  I headed into the room and tried the switch again.  Nothing.  "This is simply impossible," I said out loud.  It was so quiet that the sound of my voice startled the room.  "This can't be happening!  What's going on here?"
Suddenly I felt a cold rush of breeze pass me, like the air had just kicked on in the bathroom and headed out the door.  But it was different.  It wasn't refreshing, quite the opposite actually.  It was troubled and heavy.  A chill ran up my spine and I trembled.  
Crash! I turned and a pile of pencil boxes had fallen to the floor.  My blood turned to ice and I couldn't move.

Another blurp:

I'm still trying to get used to the 'workroom'.  Calling it by that name implies there is room to work.  Not the case.  There is a good sized table set against the wall opposite the stairs.  The problem is the table is full of office supplies.  On the right hand side of the table is our lamanator, which takes up almost a third of the table.  Next to that in the middle of the table toward the back are small wooden storage bins containing paperclips, rubber bands, pens, markers, and an assortment of other office products.  In front of that is a small space to work.  On the left hand side of the table is the paper cutter and the binding machine.  Using these two takes an act of juggling because there is no space between then, the binding machine needs to be moved to cut paper.  The paper cutter scares me.  The guard on the blade has long since disappeared so I always try to avoid having to move it or even lift the blade very high.  I am afraid it will come thundering down on my fingers.  The space is tight but manageable.  What makes if impossible to work on is all of the stuff that gets piled on the table.  In a rush to get back to class, other staff sacks piles of papers, magazines, and other materials on the table with an optimistic hope of returning and putting the piles away.  Once again, not the case.
Tonight I am down here binding stories that some of my students put together this afternoon.  They were excited to finish their stories that were going to be shared with family members in a few weeks at an open house, and begged me to finish them before the next day.  So here I am, once again accompanied only by materials and the creatures of the basement.  The other teachers have a habit of flying through their after school duties and heading out.  I don't mind some much though.  I like the quietness and the fact that I am alone.  Often at my old school I would be alone.  The difference is about a  few thousand square feet.  The buildings I am working in would fit in one pod of my old building.  I was never afraid though.  Many times I found myself there in the middle of the night.  I found comfort in the silent, vast emptiness of the hallways lit only by emergency lighting, and the blackness that met the windows and doors.  I never liked a lot of light.  I would sit in my room with only a small lamp casting but a glow on my table- just enough light is what I like best.  The only time I can remember ever being frightened was walking into the back door early one morning, there were no other cars in the parking lot which was usually the case, and the elevator opened.  I stood frozen, my stomach was about to jump out of my chest as I waited for the doors to fully open.  Finding nothing, my nerves settled down.  Weird I thought.  Later that day I found out from another teacher who was in the habit of showing up early that it happens all the time.  Once or twice I actually said goodnight to the night cleaning crew as they left for the evening.  This only happened during report card time- I concentrate best when alone.

From the new inspiration:

I stood downstairs in the basement with only school materials for company.  All the other teachers had gone home and I stayed to finish up work I needed for the next day.  The basement was small and made me feel claustrophobic.  It was a typical basement that I remember from my childhood.  I grew up living in older houses where the basement smelled musty and old.  I felt the dampness on my skin.  Spiders had made their webs in the exposed floor joists above.  A light bulb dimly lit the room, it looked as though the old black soft material wire was dripping a dying star; turning so that I could catch the small glow.  I wondered how there weren't more electrical fires in old houses caused by the careless wiring.  This was the work room.  It wasn't anything like the place I was used to working.  I came from a school that provided a large open room that looked like a office supply store.  It was well stocked and we were never in need.  I was getting use to the change, even though it was costing me to buy what I needed.

I have been inspired!  Finally after many years of self-doubt and driving myself crazy, I have an idea.  I am sticking to my favorite style to write, personal narrative, but it's going to be fiction.  I figure that I will offend people but hay, that is for you to figure out if I am truly attempting to offend you or simply pointing out the truth as it appears.  I will continue to post my progress and maybe add some snippets.  So far tonight I have updated my blog from the University of New England's old email address to a current email address that I am going to use for my writing.  Here it goes, feel free to contact me:  inmatthewswords@gmail.com.