I always fancied myself a bit of a joker, you see. Some might call me a sick bastard, but in reality, my brand of humor was just a tad…distinctive. So, when I got a job at the Preternatural Contagions Department in downtown San Francisco, it was practically a dream come true. I mean, I was surrounded by vials of stuff that made even the bogeyman cower in fear. Talk about the potential for pranks!
But I wasn’t daft. I knew where to draw the line… or so I thought. However, the occasional “accidental” spill that led to a quarantine or a seemingly haunted voicemail made its way to a colleague. Just a bit of innocent fun, you know?
Enter Marcellus, my superior. Always the stickler for rules, he was your quintessential bureaucratic villain. The kind of guy who says “it’s not my job” while sipping an overpriced chai latte. Plus, he was British. And not the charming “James Bond” kind of British. More like the “I’m judging you silently from behind my monocle” kind.
One day, as I was prepping a particularly noxious culture (some sort of hybrid fungal strain rumored to induce visions of the afterlife), Marcellus decided to lecture me on lab safety. Again.
“You, my dear,” he drawled, pointing a manicured finger at me, “are an absolute hazard. I have half a mind to report you to the higher-ups. If only they weren’t so bloody daft.”
I grinned, “Aw, c’mon Marcy. Lighten up. You know I’ve got everything under control.”
He scoffed, “Marcy? Please. The day you control anything is the day Hell hosts the Winter Olympics.”
Now, it was at this exact moment that inspiration struck. The deadliest airborne virus known to man, housed in the heart of our lab, was a legend among us. Codenamed “Morpheus,” it was said to alter perceptions, making nightmares real and reality a nightmare. And in my infinite wisdom, I thought it would be downright hilarious to make the overly-cautious Marcellus think I’d unleashed it upon the city.
So that evening, with Marcellus still working late in his office, I sauntered over to the vault. Opening it was a complex process—retinal scans, voice verification, and DNA tests. But, thanks to a stint of late-night drinking with our resident IT guy, I had some… let’s call them ‘shortcuts.’
With Marcellus watching (unbeknownst to me, of course), I discreetly dropped an empty vial out the window, making sure to let out a suitable “Oops!” I then briskly closed the window, not before catching the mock horror on his face in the reflection.
I turned to find him standing at the door, pale as a ghost, “What the devil have you done?!”
Feigning ignorance, I replied, “Oh, nothing much. Just introduced San Francisco to our dear friend, Morpheus.”
His lips quivered, “You insufferable fool! Do you even realize—”
I waved him off, “Relax, Marcy. It was empty.”
For a moment, we stood there, me enjoying his distress, him mentally cursing the day he ever met me.
But then, my phone buzzed—a news alert. The headline screamed: “Unexplained Phenomena in San Francisco—Citizens Reporting Nightmarish Visions!”
I froze. That… that couldn’t be right. My prank was just that—a prank. An empty vial.
Marcy’s voice broke the silence, dripping with smug satisfaction, “Still think it was empty?”
I rushed to the window. Below, people on the streets were behaving erratically. Some were laughing uncontrollably, pointing at things that weren’t there. Others cowered in terror, running from unseen horrors. Cars swerved, narrowly avoiding… nothing at all.
Panic surged through me. Had I unknowingly taken the wrong vial? The consequences were unimaginable. Yet, even amidst the chaos, my twisted sense of humor found an outlet.
“Y’know, Marcy,” I said, trying to sound casual, “They do say that laughter is the best medicine.”
His glare was murderous. I honestly couldn’t blame him.
But then, something else caught my eye. The city’s famous street performers had begun to integrate these hallucinations into their acts. One mimed being chased by an imaginary dragon, another juggled while avoiding non-existent falling anvils. It was absurdity on a grand scale.
Marcy let out a humorless chuckle, “Congratulations. In your bid to prank me, you’ve turned San Francisco into the world’s most screwed-up circus.”
Desperate to fix things, I reached for the intercom. “Ella,” I called out to the IT genius who helped me earlier, “Remember how you said you had a way to reverse air circulation in the building?”
Her reply, dripping with sarcasm, was instant, “Oh, NOW you remember that.”
Marcy smirked, “You truly have a gift for impeccable timing.”
Ignoring him, I said, “Ella, I need that system now!”
As she worked her magic, I hoped that by pulling the air back in, we might somehow contain the damage.
Marcy raised an eyebrow, “Do you honestly believe that will work? Even if it does, the damage is done.”
Staring at the surreal circus outside, I sighed, “A man can hope, can’t he?”
Just then, Ella’s voice crackled over the intercom, “You might want to check the latest news.”
I grabbed my phone, praying for a miracle. And there it was: “San Francisco’s Unexplained Phenomena Traced to Spoiled Milk Factory Emissions, Not Airborne Virus.”
Marcy and I exchanged glances. Relief washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by humiliation. My prank had not only backfired, but I’d also panicked for nothing. The irony was palpable.
Grinning, Marcy mused, “Turns out the real epidemic here is your unchecked idiocy.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, “Hey, at least it’s contagious.”
With San Francisco turned into a real-life circus, word of my “prank” (and subsequent freak-out) spread through the lab faster than the Black Plague in medieval Europe. The next morning, Ella had plastered a printout of the milk emission article on my door with a note: “Got milk?” Beneath it was another message: “Maybe try dropping this next time, lol.”
I sighed. If there was anything more potent than the pathogens we stored in this lab, it was workplace gossip.
I met Marcellus at the coffee machine, who was gleefully recounting the tale to a group of interns. “So there he was,” Marcellus said, taking a dramatic sip, “on the verge of tears, mind you, thinking he’d doomed us all. And over what? Some expired dairy products!”
The interns giggled. I scowled. “Very funny, Marcy. Hey, I remember when you thought a USB was a new type of STI.”
He rolled his eyes, “Your constant banter won’t change the fact that you’re the laughingstock of the lab now.”
Shrugging, I responded, “As long as I’m the star of the show.” But secretly, I was mortified. I needed to restore my reputation. And for that, I had a plan.
In the shadowy depths of the internet, there’s a little place where urban legends come to life. The ‘DarkNet Bazaar’ they called it. From haunted eBay items to the lost episode of a children’s show where characters behaved eerily real, it was all there. And in my bid to one-up Marcellus, I decided to buy a ‘haunted’ lab coat. Perfect for my next prank.
The coat arrived in a box that looked like it had seen better decades. A note inside read: “Wearer, beware. This coat has a mind of its own.”
How cheesy. Still, the coat had an odd vibe. It was older, with a pattern of faded purple spirals and golden hexagons—like something straight out of a trippy 60s movie. The perfect attire for Marcellus’ next ‘experiment’.
A few nights later, I sneaked into the lab, replacing Marcellus’ pristine white coat with my haunted acquisition. By morning, I was at my desk, eagerly awaiting the show.
Marcellus walked in, not noticing his new attire. But as the hours ticked by, something changed. Instead of his usual stoic self, Marcellus began… dancing? And not just any dance. The man was moonwalking, doing the robot, and even sprinkling in a bit of the cha-cha.
I bit back a laugh. This was more than I could have hoped for.
Ella approached, “You wouldn’t happen to know why Marcellus looks like he’s auditioning for ‘So You Think You Can Dance’?”
Grinning, I whispered, “Let’s just say his wardrobe got a little update.”
As Marcellus twirled and pirouetted, the entire lab erupted in laughter. He seemed oblivious, lost in his own boogie wonderland.
The day ended with Marcellus’ unscheduled ‘dance recital.’ As he left, still grooving, I thought I’d won. Little did I know, the joke was on me.
The next day, the coat was on my chair. A note from Marcellus read, “Thought I’d return the favor. Enjoy.”
My heart sank. I realized I was wearing the coat without remembering putting it on. And as the day progressed, I didn’t just dance—I performed. Bollywood, ballet, breakdance—you name it.
The lab was in splits. Ella handed me a pretend trophy: “For Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Ridiculousness.”
I wanted to rip the coat off, but it felt glued to me. Desperate, I scoured the DarkNet for the seller, only to find a warning in its place: “User Banned for Selling Cursed Items.”
Panicking, I approached Marcellus, “Look, I’m sorry about the coat. But we need to get rid of it!”
He smirked, “I did wonder when you’d come crawling back. As entertaining as your… performances have been, I suppose I could help. On one condition.”
Dreading his terms, I asked, “What?”
“Promise to end these pranks,” he replied.
With no choice, I agreed. Together, Marcellus and I researched the coat’s origins. It led us to a 60s dance troupe that vanished mysteriously. As legend went, they were trapped in the coat, forcing anyone wearing it to dance endlessly.
To free them (and myself), we had to perform their last unfinished routine. With Marcellus guiding me, I danced, blending moves I never knew I had. And as the last step echoed, the coat fell away, leaving me exhausted but free.
I turned to Marcellus, “Thank you.”
He nodded, “Just remember our deal.”
From that day on, there were no more pranks. But our lab did get an annual dance-off, where Marcellus and I were always the first to hit the floor.
The lab’s atmosphere changed after the “dance-off” incident. Instead of a battleground for pranks, it became a hub of camaraderie and jests. I became the lab’s resident jester, with Marcellus as the occasional straight man in our unintentional comedy duo. Yet, beneath the laughter and groans at our antics, a sinister shadow from the past would soon creep back to haunt us.
One chilly winter night, a mysterious package arrived on my doorstep. No address, no name, just a simple note: “You’ve danced with ghosts. How about a chat with shadows?” Inside was a decrepit looking radio, the kind you’d expect to see in your grandma’s attic. Its dial was stuck on a single frequency: 66.6.
Curiosity piqued, I turned it on. Static filled the air, then a faint whisper, growing clearer with each second. “Hello, jester. Remember us?” The voice was eerily familiar, a chilling blend of all the urban legends and anomalies I’d ever encountered. The spectral dancers, perhaps?
Marcellus called out from the other side of the lab, probably hearing the creepy radio broadcast, “For heaven’s sake, what have you gotten yourself into now?”
I gulped, “No pranks, I swear! This just… appeared.”
The voice on the radio continued, dripping with menace. “You played with forces beyond your understanding. Now, it’s our turn to play.”
In the days that followed, weird occurrences plagued the lab. Instruments operated on their own, samples rearranged themselves to spell out eerie messages, and worse, Marcellus’ prized chai lattes turned ice cold within seconds of being brewed.
Ella, now our unofficial tech-sorceress, sighed, “Looks like you’ve opened another Pandora’s box with that radio.”
Marcy and I glanced at each other, our age-old rivalry morphing into a reluctant partnership. Together, we dove deep into the lab’s archives, discovering a forgotten urban legend about a radio jockey who was rumored to trap souls within the airwaves, only releasing them in exchange for a captivating story.
It clicked. The mysterious radio, the haunting voice; it all made sense. This spectral jockey wanted a tale to broadcast. And who better than the duo whose antics had practically become lab folklore?
Overnight, Marcy and I penned our story, blending humor, horror, pranks, and dancing ghosts. As dawn broke, we approached the haunted radio, manuscript in hand. The voice returned, eager but wary. “What have you brought for me?”
With Marcellus narrating and me adding timely sound effects, we relayed our tale. As we reached the climax, the voice uttered a bone-chilling laugh, fading slowly into the ether. Silence enveloped the room, broken only by the hum of the radio.
The next morning, the lab returned to its usual bustling self. Yet, amidst the clinking of test tubes and the distant hum of machines, a new addition echoed softly - the hushed tales of Marcy and me. For better or worse, our legend had become part of the very fabric of the place.
As weeks turned into months, life in the lab returned to a semblance of normality. But the memories of our eerie encounters remained. The cursed coat became a centerpiece in our break room, reminding us of the time when fiction blurred with reality. And the radio? It took pride of place on Marcellus’ desk, always tuned to 66.6, even though it only ever played static.
One evening, as we were wrapping up, Marcellus raised his chai latte in a mock toast, “To pranks, dances, and inexplicable radio broadcasts.”
I smirked, lifting my mug, “And to the world’s most unexpected dynamic duo.”
Our glasses clinked, sealing our bizarre bond. In the vast tapestry of urban legends and eerie tales, our story, with its blend of humor, horror, and sheer absurdity, had carved its own niche. And though we no longer dabbled in the supernatural, we knew one thing for sure: in a world filled with anomalies, our own brand of chaotic normalcy was the most anomalous of them all.