Midterms went… okay. I was a tad overconfident but I didn’t fail anything, I just didn’t score as high as I was hoping. There were a few C’s. However, since my scholarship is based on academics, I am now teetering on the verge of… losing it, I guess? I don’t know how that process works because I figured I’d make sure to not find out. I’m dealing with this in very healthy ways like sobbing uncontrollably and eating an entire pint of ice cream in one sitting. Steven (Chicken Tenders for those that can’t remember his name) kindly volunteered to help me study when I told him I had to delay our date until I’m a little more confident in my grades and I told him that was nice, but I would be fine.
I feel like I need to handle this on my own. Like, it’s my fault I got a couple C’s, right? So I need to fix it.
(if you’re new, start here, and if you’re totally lost, this might help)
I think I’m bad at tests. And college is a lot harder than highschool so my test scores are going to be even worse here. I’ve got projects and essays that I can use to compensate though, so I’m going to focus on getting perfect scores on those.
My professors let you submit the essays early and receive feedback, like how can you not get an A when they’re willing to tell you what you need to fix in advance of grading it?
I’ve been ignoring everything else in favor of panicking over my grades and working feverishly on the new slew of assignments. I’m skipping anime club, which is disappointing because we just started SpyXFamily and I adore it. It’s okay. I’m tough enough to skip out on the things I want to do in favor of what I need to do.
Unfortunately, there’s a lot of things I need to do right now. Besides my own grades, I’m also worried about Cassie’s.
Her trouble is with only one class. I found out something was wrong when she stormed in and threw her backpack at the wall. She at least had the presence of mind to remove her laptop before flinging it violently across the room, so nothing was damaged. I let her pace back and forth for a bit before gently asking what the problem was. And then she went off.
Earlier in the semester about half the class had dropped due to frustration with the professor’s chaotic teaching style. One student even stormed out in the middle of class. The professor apparently decided to retaliate against the remaining students for… reasons. Everyone failed the midterm. Because the class performed so abysmally, he’s going to oh so generously let them retake it with the final and that grade will replace the midterm grade.
Cassie’s theory is that he’s trying to prevent students from dropping. They’re after the “drop and change grading option” deadline, so any grade they currently have is their final grade.
That alone is enough to make anyone angry, right? Cassie said that the midterm was unreasonably hard in that the questions were open-ended and were slanted more towards his personal opinions than what was in the textbook. However, Cassie had a good read on the professor and was confident that she answered with what he wanted to hear. While all the other students received failing grades, she was certain that she was the only one that would pass.
So when he didn’t hand her exam back to her, she went up to him after class to ask him where it was.
He said he couldn’t hand it back because she’d never turned it in and therefore she currently had a zero for the semester.
Cassie was so angry she couldn’t speak. She left, because she didn’t trust herself to not say something that would guarantee she wouldn’t be allowed to replace her midterm score. Instead, she came straight back to the dorm and threw her backpack against the wall in frustration.
She’s still figuring out what to do. She wants to inform the dean or something, but she’s also afraid that he’d find a way to retaliate further. With her grade being held hostage and not many students left in the class, she’s not sure she wants to take the risk.
So that explains the title. He’s not a literal monster, but I think we can all agree that his actions are pretty damn monstrous.
I want to help, but I’m not sure how. I feel like since I’m not in the class and never will be (Cassie is majoring in something I have no interest in) I can take a bit of risk on her behalf. She told me not to do anything, but I’ve emailed one of my professors that I like and think I can trust to stop by his office hours for some advice. I’m sure something like ‘hey a friend on my dorm floor has a professor that’s acting inappropriately in the classroom and they’re scared of retaliation if they make a complaint’ will be vague enough to keep her safe.
I’ll be meeting with him tomorrow. In the meantime, I have some, uh, interesting developments to report about the Rain Chasers.
I decided to use my rescue of Sweater Girl as a way to build credibility with them. Obviously I’d need to change some details. I didn’t want to give away too much about my background, just in case some of them were spies for the university. Instead, I formulated the story so that I was mostly a bystander in everything. Sweater Girl’s predicament unfolded much as it had in reality. She lent me a sweater, the laundry lady folded it, I returned it, then she vanished. After that, I started making things up. Instead of a harrowing rescue involving the steam tunnels, I merely saw her in the student union when I was buying some chicken tenders. (thanks Steven for the inspiration) I got to talking with her and she told me how she’d been pulled through a dryer into this weird realm full of laundry that she had to fold. She escaped on her own in my version of the story. She threw some laundry on the ground and while that distracted laundry lady, she made a run for it until she found an open door that returned her to her dorm’s basement.
It… wasn’t as well-received as I expected. They were skeptical. Some old lady that folded laundry? Katana boy in particular had a lot of questions that were said in this condescending tone of voice that made me want to hit him. Since I’d lived through this whole thing, I was at least able to answer them confidently, but the damage from his attitude alone was done. He didn’t believe me.
I seethed inside. I wanted to scream at them all about their hypocrisy. They ate up everything he said but as soon as I told them something real they were all ‘oh but I haven’t heard this before’ and ‘well why hasn’t Sweater Girl contacted us then’ as if they’re the local inhuman authorities and everyone on campus takes them seriously enough to ask for their advice.
But I’m bad at confrontation and instead I stood there and felt awkward and fought back frustration tears.
That was when someone new burst in through the door. He stood framed in the doorway, his hair messy and his eyes wide, and when he spoke he was breathless with desperation.
“Is this the Rain Chasers meeting?” he panted.
Everyone’s attention was now on the newcomer. I was forgotten. I slunk away to the wall in embarrassment, sidling along the windows until I reached an empty chair in the back. The group that I saw in the steam tunnels was sitting nearby, but none of them were looking at me. Near the front of the room, the girl that was the club president stood up and informed him with fake cheerfulness that yes, this was the Rain Chasers meeting.
“I need help,” he said, gulping his air like a frog.
“Well, come on in and tell us what’s going on,” she replied.
She enjoyed this, I thought bitterly. Feeling like she was in charge. Maybe that’s why my attempt at integrating myself failed - I wasn’t a scared newcomer desperate for help. I could handle myself. That didn’t fit with their self-proclaimed positions of being the only ones that knew how to combat the inhuman happenings on campus. They didn’t want more people that could hold their own. They wanted people that came crawling to them, begging for someone to save them. I slouched in my chair and bitterly crossed my arms across my chest.
I watched the newcomer carefully as he entered. It was immediately apparent that something was horribly wrong with him. There were long marks on his cheeks and while he wore long sleeves, from the way he carried his arms, careful not to touch them against his body, I knew there had to be more on the rest of his body. They were bright red against his pale skin.
Scratches. They looked like scratches.
“I woke up like this,” he said as he tentatively moved to the front of the room.
He removed his jacket. As I expected, his arms were covered with scratch marks. They criss-crossed each other in angry, raw lines. He pulled his shirt up to reveal more across his torso. They looked familiar, I thought.
Scratches made by human nails.
“You did this to yourself, didn’t you?” I called from the back of the room.
I received a dirty look from the president for speaking up. I tried to make myself not care. She wasn’t going to like me no matter what, it seemed. Might as well try to get some useful information here.
“Sorry,” the president hastily apologized. “She’s new.”
“I-it’s okay,” he stammered. “She’s right. I think. I woke up like this, but I was dreaming - sorry. Let me start over from the beginning.”
He started calmly enough. It began with a scratching at his door, he said. It started in the first week of the spring semester. I sat up straighter when he said this. There was a girl on my floor that said something about this. She was the one caught out in the rain and I had watched her run inside. She was frightened because the scratching had begun so early in the semester.
The newcomer continued to talk, growing increasingly agitated as he continued. The scratching started out subtle. He only noticed it when he stayed up late and the dorm floor was quieting down. He wasn’t sure how often it happened at first. It grew more frequent as the semester wore on. Louder, too. Last week it was bad enough that it was waking him up at night.
His roommate didn’t hear anything. Only him. He didn’t dare open the door. He’d looked through the peephole once, when it was loud enough that it sounded like a dog was digging at the wood. He stared through it into an incomplete darkness. He faltered, searching for words to describe it. Like someone was standing very close to the door, he finally said. Like their cheek was blocking the peephole, but the seal was incomplete and the light from the hallway leaked in. He thought it was a prank at first and his hand was on the deadbolt, ready to rip open the door and yell at whoever had been scratching at the door every night.
Then he saw something in the darkness. A face, he said. A head. Like a shadow moving inside the shadows. Again, his words faltered and he stared off into the distance, haunted by what he had seen. He looked thin and frail standing there in front of everyone. I pitied him. My hands tightened together and I sat there in silent agony, wondering why everyone else near the front of the room looked so intent, so excited at his story.
I just felt sick. Sick and scared.
“It was moving closer,” he finally whispered. “It saw me through the peephole and it was coming closer. I don’t know what would happen when it reached the door, but I didn’t want to find out, so I stumbled away from the door and hid in my loft. The scratching continued all night.”
It’s been unbearably loud ever since he looked. It doesn’t come every night and that’s the only reason he’s been able to get any sleep at all. However, last night, he had a dream. He heard the scratching in his dream, but it wasn’t coming from outside his room.
He was the one in the dorm hallway, scratching at the door.
He felt huge. The hallway couldn’t contain him. He was bent over and he clawed at the door with his fingernails until they broke and even then he continued to scratch with the bloody stubs. Feverish, desperate scratching that went on and on and on.
His voice cracked.
And when he woke up, he was in agony. Every inch of his body was covered in scratch marks. His nails ached from the feverish scratching he’d covered himself with. Even the bottom of his feet had scratch marks, he said, shifting uncomfortably. It hurt to walk. It hurt to stand. It hurt to do anything.
I stared at the president when he was done, watching to see what she would do. She hesitated. Maybe he didn’t notice, frightened as he was, but I sure did.
“Well, you’ve come to the right people,” she said cheerily after a moment. “We’ll figure this out.”
Then she launched into some questions, which were mostly just asking him to repeat things he’d already said. Stalling for time, I thought bitterly. None of them had answers for him. Maybe they’d heard about the scratching before, but it didn’t seem like they had any hope they could offer him. They were just stringing him along. What they should be doing was telling him to get off campus and find a way to transfer schools. And then maybe some backup plans for what to do if the scratching followed him elsewhere.
Nearby, the small group from the steam tunnels quietly got up and headed for the door. A couple people glanced back at them, but no one seemed to care that they were leaving. It seemed they had a mutual agreement with the rest of the club that they wouldn’t bother each other. I, however, had no such intention to ignore such blatantly suspicious behavior. Once they were gone, I got up to follow. Only Katana Boy noticed my departure and the shit smirked at me.
Am I really that unlikable? I keep running through everything I said in my head and wondering where I went wrong.
I really should stop that. It’s probably unhealthy and besides, I’ve given myself bigger problems to worry about. Bigger problems than my grades and Cassie’s monster of a professor.
Actually, I’m not sure which of my problems are the most important right now. I think in my head I’ve given them all equal priority and now I just feel overwhelmed as a result.
You see, I followed the steam tunnel crew down the hallway after they left the meeting. They stopped just around the corner to talk. I positioned myself against the wall nearby to eavesdrop. My heart raced in my chest and my palms were sweaty, but I didn’t dare try to dry them on my jeans. I didn’t want to make a single noise that would give me away.
“-think he’s a good candidate?” one was saying as I caught up.
“He’s certainly desperate enough.”
“He should be desperate.” The speaker’s voice was sharp. “He’s long past the point he could have handled this on his own.”
A moment of silence.
“Should we warn him this might not work and we don’t know what’ll happen if it fails?” someone asked uneasily.
“Yeah, I think so. Best he’s aware of the risks. But we should also tell him what’s going to happen if he lets the scratching continue.”
What would happen if the scratching continues? What were they going to try to stop it? I leaned closer to the corner, anxious to hear whatever was said next.
Then I sneezed.
Look. It surprised even me. I didn’t even get a chance to try to stifle it.
The next thing I knew, the small group of Rain Chasers had rounded the corner and were staring me down. One of the women was at the front with her arms crossed across her chest. She tapped her foot impatiently.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I, uh, I was eavesdropping.”
“Obviously,” the woman snapped.
“Well, it’s pretty clear the Rain Chasers back in the room don’t know how to handle anything,” I continued, rushing to justify myself. “I hoped that you all had a better idea of what’s going on and it seems you do.”
“So? We barely know you. Assuming you’re not here just to laugh at us, then that means you must have some understanding of how dangerous these weird occurrences around campus can be.”
She talked fast. It seemed to be a habit of hers.
“I’m not like them,” I said. “I know what I’m doing.”
Even I could hear the pleading in my voice. I cringed inwardly. They probably thought I was pathetic. The woman sighed loudly and bounced her heel restlessly. She glanced around at the other students assembled around her. One said he was okay with taking a risk on me. Someone else disagreed. It was intensely uncomfortable to hear them debating this right in front of me. I shifted where I stood and tried to not look too anxious or too pathetic. I felt like a dog desperate to be brought inside.
“How about this,” the woman suggested. “Ashley. That was your name, right? How about you give us some proof that you aren’t going to be a liability if something goes wrong? If you can, then we’ll bring you along with what we do to save that guy from the scratching.”
I tentatively agreed, thinking hard on what I could do to prove myself. Maybe I could get someone from the campground to vouch for me. For a brief, wild moment I even wondered if I could convince Beau to make a visit to the campus. That’d show them, for sure, I thought maliciously.
“The library ghost,” the woman said, interrupting my brief moment of daydreaming. “You’re familiar with his story?”
Was I ever. I nodded eagerly. This would be easy, I thought.
“He’s one of the few benign things around,” she continued. “However, you can upset him. Find out how and tell us how.”
My mind quickly raced through the process I’d need to follow. I’d need to find the stories - obscure ones, no doubt - about the campus ghost. Then, unless they all agreed, I’d need to test them to find which one was true.
“Isn’t that… dangerous?” I ventured.
Is this hazing? I feel like this is hazing.
“Sure,” she replied. “But there’s a lot of dangerous things on this campus and if your story about the laundry lady was in the least bit true, I think you can handle it.”
Everyone in the group seemed satisfied by the proposal. I was less thrilled, but at least I had a way to find out what they were up to that didn’t seem too risky. I don’t have any experience with ghosts, but they don’t seem as murderous as a lot of other inhumans. It should be fine, right? And if the stories I find make it seem otherwise, I can come up with a different plan.
I had one question for them before they left, though.
“Uh,” I said nervously. “So what does happen if someone ignores the scratching long enough?”
They told me. Their expressions were carefully blank as one of them explained. They’ll keep scratching themselves at night, they said. They’ll scratch harder and harder until one morning, they’ll wake up and all their skin will be scratched off.
I’ve already made up my mind on what I’m going to do. I know the university ghost was trying to warn me about them, but maybe it was not because they’re dangerous, but because they’re venturing into dangerous territory. Ghosts and other inhuman entities don’t make distinctions like humans do. I’m willing to take that risk. Because that student’s fate is too horrific to contemplate and if they have a solution - a way to save him - then I want to help.
Besides. There’s something about the one girl that caught my attention. The one that spoke too fast and seemed to be unable to stand still, filled with restless energy. There’s a sharpness to her. A hard look in her eyes.
I… I think I’ve found the campus’s version of Kate.[x]