In my second year of college, I was doing well academically. With a 4.0 GPA, I had poured myself into studying, sacrificing social time for my grades. I didn’t know many people on campus and had only two friends, one of whom seemed utterly unconcerned with her own academic standing. We weren’t close, but she would call me often, checking in to make sure I was okay. I appreciated her company, even if it was just during our weekly Thursday lunch. We met when she accidentally spilled hot coffee on my bag, apologizing so profusely that I had to tell her to stop. Since then, we’d become friends, and our lunch dates became routine.
She was one of those people who exuded energy, always hyper and undeniably kind. Popular, with a nice boyfriend, she seemed to be the life of the party—literally. She recently invited me to her birthday party, but I tried every excuse to get out of it. I had no interest in the kind of party I knew she’d be hosting—booze, drugs, the whole deal. But she was relentless, insisting that I come, even threatening to drag me out of my dorm room if I didn’t show up.
When she gave me the address, I realized it wasn’t on campus. She offered to give me a ride, but I declined, preferring to have the option to leave early if I needed to. After returning to my dorm, I looked up the address on Google Maps. It was in a very upscale neighborhood, one I had never been to.
A couple of hours before the party, I ordered some food to my dorm room, ate, and studied a bit before leaving. I decided to head out early, hoping to avoid the crowd. I figured if I showed up before everyone else, I could slip away before things got too wild.
When I arrived, there were only about five people there. The house was massive, with a kitchen that could easily fit ten average-sized kitchens inside it. Within half an hour, the place started to fill up, the music grew louder, and the alcohol flowed freely. To my surprise, I was actually having a good time. Everyone was friendly, and for once, I didn’t feel shy.
A guy came over and asked me to dance. I politely declined—I’m not much of a dancer. He then offered to get me a drink, and to my own shock, I said yes. I had no idea what he would bring back, but when he returned with something strong, I found myself enjoying it. We talked, laughed, and for the first time, I felt like I was truly part of the college experience.
At some point, I needed to find the bathroom. I asked around and was directed upstairs, to the fourth door on the right. By then, I was feeling the effects of the alcohol and struggled a bit with the stairs. The hallway was long, with at least ten doors on each side. I chose the left side, counting the doors until I reached the fourth one.
The door handle felt strangely cold, but I brushed it off, thinking it was just the alcohol messing with me. I turned the handle and stepped into complete darkness, fumbling for the light switch. As I was feeling along the wall, I noticed something darker than the dark bathroom, something moving in a strange, almost dancing way. I thought maybe someone was in there, too drunk to realize the light was off.
“Sorry, I need to go, but I can wait outside,” I said, but no one answered. The thought crossed my mind that maybe there were two people in there, doing something they shouldn’t be. As I turned to leave, something knocked me flat on my back. My head hit the floor hard, and as I started to get up, I saw it—a black mass, like smoke, moving fast and erratically.
The thing was powerful; it had thrown me to the ground like I weighed nothing. I was too scared to move, and even if I had screamed, the music downstairs was too loud for anyone to hear me. I just stayed there, watching this dark, smoky mass. It would thin out, hover over me, then reform and move to another part of the room. It was cold, so cold that I could see my breath. When I exhaled, the smoke turned a light blue, almost white. It didn’t like that and shot up to the ceiling, hovering there.
I tried to make sense of what I was seeing, but the longer I looked at it, the less sense it made. It didn’t take any kind of shape, just floated above me. Then I noticed a shadow in the corner of the room—a human shape, just standing there, not moving. The smoke noticed I was looking at it and swept over to the figure. Suddenly, I heard a gasp, and I realized it wasn’t just a shadow—it was another person, standing there as terrified as I was.
Knowing I wasn’t alone should have comforted me, but it didn’t. The smoke returned to hover over me, and I felt like it was trying to communicate, trying to tell me something I couldn’t understand. I was too scared to think straight. The drunk feeling was gone, replaced by sheer terror. I tried to calm myself, imagining I was back in my dorm, but it didn’t work. I felt the need to stand up, so I did. I looked around, trying to locate the other person, but I couldn’t see them anymore.
I took a step forward, and a voice—female, demanding—said, “I wouldn’t.” I froze. The voice was full of authority, and I was instantly afraid of her. Something told me not to try to escape.
I had no idea who this woman was, or what the hell that smoke was, but I knew I was in over my head. I wanted to run, to get out of there, but I couldn’t. The smoke was too strong, and now this woman was involved. I felt her presence looming over me, and I knew I was trapped.
As I stood there, trying to figure out what to do, the light suddenly flicked on. I blinked against the brightness, my eyes struggling to adjust. When I could finally see, what I saw didn’t make any sense. There was an Ouija board on the floor, with four people sitting around it, their hands on the pointer. They looked almost dead, their eyes closed, unmoving.
Then I saw her—my so-called friend, standing there with a smile that chilled me to the bone. She didn’t say anything at first, just stared at me like she had been waiting for this moment.
“You were the one,” she finally said, her voice cold and detached. “We need you. We need you to accept it.”
I had no idea what she meant, but I didn’t want to find out. I turned and bolted for the door, flinging it open and racing down the stairs. I didn’t stop until I was outside, in my car, the doors locked.
I drove straight to the police station and told them everything. They sent officers to the house, but when they returned, they acted like nothing had happened. They made me feel like I was crazy, like I had imagined the whole thing.
I didn’t go back to campus. Instead, I packed up my things and drove straight home, back to my old bedroom where I’m writing this now. I have no intention of ever returning to that town or that college.
Be careful who you make friends with, especially in college and new towns.
