Chapter 4: Crossing the Line

Josh collapsed on the floor. At some point, the mirror in the stairwell had shattered—broken glass scattered everywhere, glinting under the flickering ceiling lights.

A huge shard of glass was buried in Josh’s stomach, and he gripped another in his hand, blood pouring between his fingers onto the linoleum. The sharp, metallic scent mixed with the harsh smell of cleaning chemicals. My stomach rolled, nausea rising.

Josh could finally speak, but his words came out slurred and broken, just barely loud enough for us to hear through the crack under the door.

He used the glass to carve bloody lines into his skin: "Scales, I don’t want scales. I have to scrape them all off. Scrape them all off."

His voice was rough, raw—like sandpaper scraping metal. It stuck with me, even after the echo faded.

Josh’s voice faded away, weaker and weaker—he was dying right outside our door.

We pressed close, unable to look away, even as we wanted nothing more than to hide.

Someone filmed it, and the video hit the group chat in seconds. The chat exploded with shocked emojis, people threatening to drop out, others insisting it was a prank or some viral TikTok stunt.

Someone asked, "Did he piss something off? Like…"

He didn’t finish, but urban legends started flying. Reddit threads, campus ghost stories, rumors about students vanishing—all of it bubbled up.

Even among us, belief and doubt tangled together. Sam crossed himself, whispering a prayer. Tyler rolled his eyes, but kept glancing at the door.

Mike turned to me: "Dude, you think Josh really…?"

He couldn’t finish. His face was pale, eyes huge.

I shook my head, trying to sound sure: "No way. We’ve all heard stories, but no one’s ever seen anything like this. Not just me—maybe nobody in this whole school has. How could it be such a coincidence?"

Everyone nodded, but Sam still looked worried: "This is bad. If it’s infectious, just looking at these symptoms… we’re all doomed."

He always made things worse, but this time, no one argued. The fear was real.

We tried to tune him out, but none of us could say he was wrong.

Not long after, the RA messaged: "Don’t come out. I’ll go check on the guy’s condition."

The chat went wild—people cheering him on, dropping eye-roll emojis, most just relieved someone was finally doing something.

Even the loudest complainers quieted down, waiting for updates.

The RA walked from the first floor up to the third, holding a claw hammer. Someone snapped a blurry pic—RA looking tense, knuckles white on the handle, like a B-movie hero about to face a zombie.

In a few minutes, Josh was dead. The news raced through the group chat, shock settling over everyone.

His corpse lay in the hallway. None of us wanted to look, but everyone wanted to know what came next. People relayed every move in real time—"RA’s almost there," "He’s standing over the body."

The RA reached the third floor, moving slow, every muscle tense, gripping the hammer like it was the only thing keeping him safe.

But before he got close, he suddenly bent over and vomited—loud, echoing down the hall. The stench of blood and rot was overwhelming, even through the door. I pressed my sleeve to my nose, desperate to block it out.

Even though it was early summer, mosquitoes and flies swarmed, drawn by the smell. Someone made a joke about needing bug spray, but nobody laughed.

We watched, silent, breath held, waiting for the nightmare to end.

But the RA froze, mid-step, body going rigid. Time stopped with him.

I pressed my face to the peephole, heart pounding, eyes wide. The hallway wobbled in my vision.

Suddenly, the RA’s face slammed into the peephole, eyes wild, foam bubbling at his mouth—he’d gone crazy too. The last thing I saw was his face slamming into the peephole, eyes wild, and then—darkness.