If you have ever stayed a little too long in Tech, you’ll probably understand what I am about to describe. The empty halls, eerily quiet without their signature buzz. The lights casting odd-shaped shadows. A door creaking somewhere far in the distance. Perhaps you notice an odd musk, maybe a skittering silhouette caught in a blurry glance; one thing is certain: There is more to Tech than meets the eye.
Welcome, dear reader. I must warn you, the tales in this article are bone-chilling and bloodcurdling. The following are completely true stories by various students.
A few years ago, a desperate student dashed from bathroom to bathroom—yet all were locked; finally, only one door remained. They barged in. Hundreds of people were tightly packed, vaping and shaping a cloud so thick one couldn’t tell up from down. This student’s slow suffocation was neither quick nor painless, and their soul remembered each strained cough. Now a sickly spirit wanders between the restrooms. It wheezes and retches and writhes—a horrifying sight. Once the clock strikes four, any student who dares to vape in the bathrooms will feel a cold hand clasp around their shoulder, a shaky breath wrap its fingers around their neck, and finally an endless flow of chemical smoke enter their throat. Squirming and screeching, they will slowly suffocate on the piss-soaked floor.
My, that was rather dark. I do apologize, dear reader. Don’t worry, our next story will be more… lighthearted.
If you have ever heard of Mr. Evans, then I have quite the tale. Many years after being hired, he found himself behind on grades and prep one stormy night. With the semester ending soon, he was distracted by the prospect of retirement. As he went from papers to lab equipment, he made a small mistake. A simmering, slimy solution slowly boiled from a beaker. Before he realized it, a blast burst from the room. Masked by thunder, not a lone spider batted an eye. When someone dies, their soul passes on; Mr Evans’ soul, however, reacted abnormally to this concoction and became stuck. He now roams in a daze which can only be described as what exists between the living and the dead. If your work is overdue, and a deluge decides to debut, take care not to be seen as you enter room 216. For a small trace of that ghastly goo may still be stuck to the ceiling, oozing and peeling.
I’m sorry, perhaps it is rude for me to air the secrets of a dead man. Do not worry, though. I have saved the best story for last. It is the tale of a poor journalist, forever haunted by what could’ve been.
John Doe was a young journalist, bright-eyed and full of pride. He wanted more than anything to be great—to write for The New York Times or, perhaps, the Oaklandside. His chance finally came when a rumor spread that Dr Alexis was a robot. He desperately wanted to be the first on the case, even if it was a long shot. The initial step was shadowing her. He saw Dr Alexis generate AI art and even speak to another teacher in binary. All he needed was an interview—the perfect confession. He sent an email on October 1st; he followed up on the 3rd. By the 25th, he was stressing. Three years passed, and over 100 replies simply professed: “I am unavailable to be addressed.” He was driven mad with dismay. Now, if you dare stay when the evening sun casts its rays, you may hear the lone ding of a snickering nay: “I am unavailable to say.”
I too, dear reader, have suffered a fate similar to John Doe. All the journalists in this school face the plight of Dr Alexis’s inattention. It is only a matter of time before her reach extends beyond the Scribes’ walls and before her inky tendrils reach you too.
Take my words as a warning, dear reader. This grand institution simmers with a slimy underworld—ghosts, ghouls, and empty inboxes. Beware of the setting sun and of the spirits writhing through the halls.