I don’t know how to start this story. There’s so much I wanna say, lots I haven’t fully unpacked yet throughout the years, and more, all the shit I buried deep underneath my psyche. The kind of stuff your brain wants to keep hidden from you because, otherwise, it’s just too much to handle. Maybe that’s what’s keeping me from writing this, or maybe it’s something else.
I was a teenager when everything happened, so the memories are kinda fuzzy. My parents don’t remember anything and the few people I still keep in contact with from that school have only small recollections of what transpired. If it weren’t for them, I’d have thought I dreamt everything up somehow. Despite my research and scavenging, local news came up dry: no obituaries, articles, or otherwise discussing the Eye-Rub High game.
The people I knew from then claimed their parents didn’t remember anything, with one chalking it up to it having been an exaggeration: “You know how we were at that age, always coming up with a new way to give our parents a scare.”
But this was more than a scare. It was real. It had happened. And I’m finally ready, I think, to really talk about it.
Like I said, I was a teenager. Sixteen at the time, starting 11th grade. I was kind of excited, but a lot of us were mourning the end of summer vacation. Though our parents definitely weren’t.
The first day I met him I had been dropped off early. So had a few of my other friends: Jake, Kim, and Bret. Since school didn’t start for another hour, we had huddled out by the yard, talking excitedly about what kind of shit we had gotten into over the summer.
It was an ordinary morning for us. Until we got bored.
We looked around, seeing if there was anyone else we could talk to. There was a small huddle by the fence, circling something or someone, and talking in excited whispers. Out of curiosity, and since the bell hadn’t rung yet, we hurried over.
Five kids surrounded one smaller boy. Our town wasn’t a small town per say, but we damn near knew everyone in it, especially at school. This kid was new though and we rarely got new kids, so I had guessed that’s why everyone was so excited.
When we pushed closer, we heard them talking about a new game, one no one had ever heard of before. This not only piqued our curiosity but got us eager too. Jake tried asking about it but one of the girls quickly shooshed him. So we kept quiet, pressed in, and listened as carefully as we could.
The new kid was small, definitely younger, but he spoke loud and fast. How such a powerful voice could be coming from someone so petite still baffles me. And it wasn’t just that his voice was loud, it’s how he drew you in. He started describing this game where, if you rub your eyes long and hard enough, you start seeing visions of the future in the images your eyes produced.
He claimed that his own brother had been able to correctly predict a big world event by doing so. A lot of us snickered, some giggled and laughed, but the boy was so serious… A part of me believed him then, and a part of me sure as Hell believes him now.
Eventually, after what felt like hours of listening to this kid talk, the bell rang for first class. By noon, word had gotten around to the entire school about the Eye-Rub High. No one ever called it this officially, but it fits. And by last period, some kids were already trying it out - mostly the older 12th graders, who were daring each other to see how long they could go on doing it. From what I remember, the record that day was 46 seconds.
It wasn’t taken seriously, no one actually believed they would see the future. But damn did it feel good to do it, kind of like sticking a Q-tip in your ear and hitting that really sweet spot. You know you shouldn’t, but the feeling is euphoric.
When we saw the new kid again at lunch the next day, he was surrounded by a new group of kids, asking him all kinds of questions about the game. At that point, I wasn’t as interested in the game as everyone else was, I was more concerned about the shitty half-baked dough the school was trying to pass off as pizza than anything else.
By gym, new kid was again surrounded by more people. Kim said she tried asking him about where his brother had learned the game but he had ignored her question. I remember her telling us he just kept telling stories about weird things his brother had predicted.
We decided we were bored of his game and had gone back to talking about upcoming movies we wanted to see. We were in the middle of deciding the best movie genre when we heard the first scream. I looked around, first to where new kid had been standing, and then to the source of the scream as it came again - this time louder.
I shuddered at the sound, it was like nails on a chalkboard. One of the teachers, Mr. Beed, rushed towards the bleachers. The screaming continued, louder and accompanied by crying.
Mr. Beed rose from behind the bleachers, holding onto Johnny, one of the tenth graders.
“Let me see,” said Mr. Beed, but Johnny kept his eyes covered, his arms and hands moving rapidly, like he couldn’t stop. It wasn’t until Mr. Beed turned that I realized Johnny was digging into his eyes deep and furiously with the palms of his hands. Mr. Beed quickly took hold of one of Johnny’s hands and pulled it away. He cried in pain as the cold wind blew into the scratches on his face. They were thick and bloody. But worst were his eyes.
The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, as several veins had popped from the intense rubbing; and blood had mixed into his tears, which fell in slow, long streaks.
“Oh fuck.” It was the first time I had heard a teacher swear, but thinking back on it now, and given the circumstances, it was well earned. Mr. Beed rushed Johnny to the nurses’ office, where I assumed they called an ambulance and his parents.
One of the people I spoke to recently, Mary, remembered poor Johnny and claimed they had to keep him strapped down to his hospital bed, to keep him from continuously rubbing his eyes. This I wasn’t sure of, but she did remind me of something else: the new kid had disappeared that day. And come to think of it, I hadn’t seen him at all after Johnny had been discovered.
Later that week, there were a few talks from the principal, and our teachers, and parents got it on it too, all of them warning us about the dangers of playing games we made up or taking on dangerous dares. They also told us that Johnny would recover, but there had been some damage to the nerves of his eyes and so, we wouldn’t be seeing him again for the rest of the school year.
Per the usual, once you tell kids not to do something, they just wanna do it even more. Every hall I walked down, there were claims of people having played the game and seeing visions of future disasters, scores for the Superbowl, and some even claimed they knew that month’s winning lottery numbers. Whispers, rumors, gossip, but really nothing more.
Later that day, as the halls were clearing up and kids were going home, Darren, one of the twelfth graders, came rushing down the hall, holding tightly onto a test he had taken the day before. A big, fat, red A+ sat near the corner. He was smiling ear to ear, boasting, and claiming the new kid was right, the game worked. He had seen the answers to the test in his eyes.
A group of us surrounded him, wanting to know more. He said he started slow at first, digging in with his knuckles, then the back of his thumbs, and finally moving into a faster pace with his palms. This went on for a minute. It felt good, incredible, and then like he was floating and flying through the air. Swirls of shapes burst into darkness, like an intense kaleidoscope.
“It was like the relief you get when you finally scratch that itch you’ve been trying to reach,” he said, “But better. So. Much. Better.”
Finally, after about a minute and a half, the test answers came into view. They were clear as day. So clear, that he could see himself sitting in Mrs. Flowers’ classroom. He could smell used erasers and freshly sharpened pencils; he could feel the plastic chair digging into his butt and even heard Mrs. Flowers’ voice. And then there, sitting on his desk, were the correct answers.
He showed us the paper again. We believed him and so we rushed home, ready to try out the Eye-Rub High.
We didn’t see Darren or the new kid after that day.
Come to think of it now, none of us had ever even gotten his name or he just never told us. But it didn’t matter then, a new frenzy had taken over our school. Kids were sent to the hospital with broken and burst eye vessels, scratches, and even chaffing on the skin around their eyes. The students who hadn’t succumbed to the Eye-Rub High were kept home as if it were some kind of infectious disease and not a game we were all choosing to partake in.
There were claims from parents and students that some of them were found smiling and laughing, as if they had reached some kind of ascension. One kid was found unconscious, his nails protruding from his eyelids and brows.
I never got far myself, but I can admit it was a feeling unlike anything. Darren was right, in that it was this beautiful release; better than scratching an itch or cleaning the inside of your ear with a Q-tip. I never saw anything myself, but felt I came close a few times.
Everything finally ended after one of the teachers had committed suicide.
His wife first called the police after she found him face-deep in the carpet, frantically rubbing his face and eyes in it. When they found him, the veins in his eyes had burst from the force, and his skin was raw and covered in friction burns. He died after jumping out the window of their tenth-story apartment.
She had later found a letter from him in his office, with only one sentence: “Please, don’t mourn me.”
It was my mother who had spoken to the poor woman after everything happened. She was still trembling as she told my mom the story, despite it having happened two weeks before.
I listened in as best I could, and the way she told the story, the terror she felt; how his screams of agony turned into a laugh, and then a wide smile. She said she could feel the joy emanating from him; tempting her to break into a smile, to laugh with him. Had it not been for the police knocking at her door… She left shortly after. And that’s all I remember of her.
I haven’t played or heard of the game since. And I’m ready to finally be done with it all. But before I finish up, I just ask, please don’t mourn me.