It’s that time of the year – the housing lottery. And I’m not entirely sure how to feel about it.
To put it simply, it has come to my attention during this process that there is something creeping in the dark, chilly underbelly of Brown University. It haunts the alleyways, brushing up against the unwashed windowpanes of long-abandoned and long-forgotten residences on the far outskirts of campus.
I’m not making this up. My sources are upperclassmen, who speak of the creature with a shifty-eyed guilt, as if afraid that it will, if they speak too loud, hunt them down for their disrespect. “It smells of beer and shit and its got these piercing red eyes…” one student said in a hushed voice, before breaking down at the memory and dissolving into hysterics. The only thing I could get from her after that was that she wished not to be named, because this creature, “was everywhere, had eyes everywhere, he’s watching us even now!”
She passed out and had to be carried home.
So I’m feeling a bit of stress over the housing lottery, because I don’t want to end up living anywhere near (or in) this eerie demon. It’s hard to believe that high school kids are touring campus right now with smiling, laughing guides, who don’t tell them of the darkness that lurks beneath.
But because I do feel a certain responsibility for my own life, I resolved to find out as much information about this creature as I could. It was hard work. There was the obvious problem that upperclassmen are, in general, tall and scary, and the secondary problem that most went the way of my first interviewee, and started shaking uncontrollably at the mere mention of the creature.
I wrote down the blubbered, broken words my interviewees spoke as fast as I could in the hopes of deciphering them later.
“You’re in too deep,” said one, grasping my shoulders so tightly that it was painful. “Get out while you can. Get out while you can!”
Others gave me similar advice.
“Don’t talk about it. It knows when you talk about it.”
“I’ve seen things… I’ve seen it…”
It. It. But what exactly was it?
In a last ditch effort, I visited my first friend again. She was lying in bed, still emotionally healing from our first talk.
“I know I shouldn’t. But I have to know,” I told her. She looked small and weak, wrapped up in blankets, with an IV hanging off one arm. “The monster — who is it? What is it?”
Her eyes flew open. She grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled me close.
“P—P—…”
Is she trying to say my name? It starts with a p, after all. But then her breath hitched, and, in a terrified whisper, she managed to form the second syllables.
“PERKINS!”
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