The Stories I Must Write

What is this? I have no business accepting this. I'm just an English major student, and not a very successful one in the grand scheme of things. Doesn't the term, "Cs make degrees" mean anything to anyone? Was there some sort of competition? A lottery? Did students just get selected randomly? Not that I'm complaining or anything. I'm just stating the facts here. Student loans need to be paid and I need the cash. The letter that came with the package:

"To the beloved member of the university, we would like to express our sincerest congratulations on your selection in becoming the writer and owner of the Black Room Book. The goal of this book is to write a series of short horror stories, all of which is your choice to write. We wish to observe our student's mindsets when creating stories of this calibar, and the somewhat sensative subject matter of writing horror. We realise that this may be an inconvenience in your daily life, and you are more than welcome to refuse this offer. But please, consider this $20,000 cash advance for your efforts. We realise the sum is a little extreme, but we have the absolute wish to pursue the finest story-telling, and we believe you are the individual to do the job right. We hope you enjoy your time with the book. Have fun!"

The letter itself was legit. The university seal was on it, the paper itself was campus letter standard for when I got my acceptance letter way back when. But yeah, this seemed like a prank. "Have fun!"? Really? But that mindset quickly went away when I saw the money. A big, fresh stack of bills in an envelope package, just for me. This wasn't some drug money or anything illegal. This was legit. They're paying me this much to write something. What was the likelyhood of THAT happening any time soon?! I unwrap the package for the Black Room Book itself. It was...pretty small. And thin. Did they want me to add any more paper? Maybe make the stories a bit longer? The cover was black. Black Book indeed. Black...huh. Strange. The more I looked at the cover, the more it felt...empty. Whatever. Either way, I might as well start now. It's weird, I kinda feels like I'm writing a diary, mainly cause the first thing I think about writing for characters is all the shitty people in my life here at campus. Horror stories, huh? "Let's get gruesome". Yep, that was my mindset.

After writing the first story, I decided to head out and celebrate. I mean, I wasn't gonna let that $20,000 go to waste now, was I? Pizza, beers, some late night McDonalds after getting wasted, it was a great night, one of the best I've had in a long time. 2 days after that, police. Not for me, but for the campus. The student body were being told the usual thing you'd expect at a crime scene, "Stay back please!" This is an active crime scene!" I didn't know until later who it was. Markus Latula. The asshole poster boy for all the Joey's at the university. If overconfidence was a shithead sex symbol, it would be his own smug face. He had his neck ripped open, head nearly taken off the neck. Police don't have any major suspects, and can't find the murder weapon...Good.

Later that night, I couldn't be bothered writing. Knowing that asshole was dead seemed to make me feel content enough to just relax. Nothing was wrong. I just relaxed on my bed, staring into space...No. I wasn't. I was staring at my desk. The book. The book was there. I just stared at it. I broke my gaze for a split second and looked the time. One full hour had passed. Why was it so important that I looked at it? "Curiosity kills" they say, but I needed to know. I got up. The book was there on the desk. The black cover...it was...like it was staring at me. It was staring into me. I sat down. What's another story I could write?

2 days later, the police came again. The victim: Carly Owens. Once upon a time, she ruined the life of a girl I knew back at highschool. Humiliated her, made her a pariah. She ended up taking her own life, and Little Miss Owens got off scot-free. Guess it paid to have wealthy parents that can buy great lawyers. Her body was twisted. From what I heard, it looked painful. Twisted...just like her. That night, the police came by to the dorms. We all assembled in the courtyard, where they gave us a speech about the killings, and to be careful around campus and the dorms. Then, the interviews. All of us were questioned, myself included. What did I do? I didn't do anything. I knew Carly Owens' victim back in highschool, but that was it. Jeez, I need to head back.

Another story written. It was funny. I didn't know it at first but, this, right now, feels right. It felt like I was needed for something, for once in my life. It was this book. I had the book to thank for all of this. For everything. I was so happy.

2 days later, murder number 3. Blake Dennis. One of the biggest assholes at the university. The nice guy, the cool guy, the one everyone likes. The one who listens. People talk to him and pour their hearts and souls into their conversations. He was so approachable...but so was I. Why didn't anyone talk to me? Why should I be ignored? I was here too! He was found with his heart ripped from his chest and jaw smashed open. People were actually sad to see him go. Oh well.

Third times the charm. The police came again. "We're checking all of the dorms! We need to search your rooms!" I didn't care. I didn't do anything. All I've been doing was writing. Just writing....writing...what? What...what've I been writing? Horror stories. But...about what? Why? Why can't I remember? Why does it matter? Maybe I should look back. Nah, it's all good. What's done is done. Wait, no. W-what...what is this? The book. I' m writing. What am I even writing? I...I can't remember. My room. MY ROOM! What is this?! Anything's going black! Of course it is! Three strikes, you're out! Isn't it nice to be absorbed into a story? No! Please! Oh god, help me! PLEASE! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SOMEONE HELP M-

The room returned to light. Empty. Nothing inside. Police knock and enter the room. No one. A single book rests on the desk. A student passes by.

"Excuse me, who used to own this room?"

"Some guy. Haven't really seen him much, he's just been hanging out in his room."

"What's his name?"

"Ummmm...huh. You know, I can't remember."