SCARY STORY CONTEST: I have to change
Happy Oct. 1, Pacers! This October we wanted to do something special, something engaging. Pacer Times decided to come together to create a story students could add on to. This is the beginning of something exciting, collaborative.
Students: submit 300 words or less of a continued version of this story — feel free to leave it hanging for the next student. Let’s see how twisted and spooky we can get!
The student submissions that are picked for publication will have a feature story written about them (with consent). Get writing (and spooky) Pacers!
Submit to nkriegel@usca.edu.
PART ONE:
If I could change one thing, it would be killing Jude. Warm water washes his crusted blood from my hands, staining the porcelain sink. I pick up a small brush from the counter and run the bristles under my fingernails, removing the remaining pieces him and watching them flow down the sink.
I look up at myself in the mirror and stare into my own dull, black eyes before noticing the red painting I’ve created on my shirt. I flashback to watching his face writhe as he begged for me to reconsider my haste decision.
I turn off the water and dry my hands with paper towels that I toss into the trash can next to the toilet. I tear my hardened, sinful clothes off of my grungy body and fill the trash can with them. I tie the grocery bag and set it aside. What’s done is done.
Alone in my room, I rip an outfit off of its hanger and awkwardly pull it over my body, but I still feel dirty. I haven’t got time to shower.
I throw my worn bag around my body and lock my front door. Walking hurriedly to my car and manually unlocking the aging vehicle, I toss my bag into the passenger seat and turn the key. The engine stalls for a moment before turning over. I make it to campus with five minutes to spare, barely.
I regret not making time to bring coffee with me this morning. God knows I need it.
I put my bag back on and went for a speed walk to the Humanities & Social Sciences Building. I rush to my class just in time, with students still filtering in. I lay my bag on the podium and pull out my heavily dissected copy of “Devil in the White City” by Erik Larson.
A note falls from the front cover, dropping onto the carpeted floor. I pull my pants up so that I can crouch down and pick it up. It is a white index card with black scratching that says, “I was wondering if I could get some extra help outside of class with my term paper. I know it’s due next week, but I feel so lost and could really use some help.”
It’s in Jude’s handwriting. I don’t want this. He certainly didn’t. I fold the card haphazardly and quickly shove it in my back pocket.
Most of them get up and make their way towards the front with booklets of ideas that will take me hours upon hours to go through later.
Harold makes it to the podium empty-handed. “Hey, Dr. Smith. I know the paper is due today and all, but I haven’t heard from Jude. We were supposed to finish it over the weekend together, but he’s been incommunicado since class last week. Do you think I could turn my paper in on Friday since I’m down a partner?”
He nervously fiddles with something in his pocket and looks at me expectantly. The pause after his question became too much, so he started again, “I just thought that because my partner ditched me and all, I would be able to get an extension. You know I don’t want to —”
I cut him off, shaking my head. Get it together.
“Sure, Mr. Daniels. Take until Friday. Please take your seat.”
He somberly walks back to his seat. I rub my neck and watch as students have gradually found their ways back to their desks where they have resumed looking at me. My head feels crowded with what feels like one hundred different problems at the moment when Jude walks in and sits just next to the door in the front row.
I blink and nothing changes. His hair is a mess and his clothes are ripped.
He looks the same as last night. Not when he was dead. No, minutes before.
I start to say something when I feel a lump caught in my throat and I am unable to make anything out. I manage to whisper an excuse to get me out of the room and jog over to the closest restroom.
I lock the door behind me when I make it to the faculty bathroom. I position myself in front of the metal sink, staring down into it. I look up at myself and feel insane for a moment. I know he can’t be alive. I know this.
I turn on the faucet and fill my hands with water that I splash on my face. I repeat this process a couple of times, trying to scrub my pores back to reality. I open my wet eyes to see that the water in my hands is red with blood. I drop the water immediately and take a step back, noticing my stained collar in the mirror. Thankfully, my choice in dark clothes renders the stain barely noticeable, but I have to get home and change.
END PART ONE. PACERS, THE REST IS UP TO YOU.
A special thank you to reporter Jillian Paige Hicks for writing part one. Another special thank you to the rest of the Pacer Times staff for coming together and supporting the writing process, throwing ideas and writing little pieces of part one.
