All locked up
Welcome readers, we hope to yet again indulge you on another trip to the other side of reality. A reality not unlike our own, just a tad darker and a bit less friendly. We now take you to the warped recesses of your imagination and welcome you to: A SC4 Horror Story.
Statement from the Port Huron Police Department: “Before the disappearance of the individuals that are now known as the Saint Clair Six, there was an E-mail sent by individuals whose identity is being concealed at the family’s request. The E-mail has just now come to us and is being reviewed as new evidence for the recently closed case.”
As we typed away on our keyboards, picking up the slack on dropped articles, making heavy revisions and pushing towards the deadline we received a visit from an old friend: Larry the Security Guard. A friendly man to say the least, he always took an interest on what we were writing he would pop in for a hello, indulge us in conversation for a minute or two and then went on his way.
“Hey guys!” Came the all too familiar call.
“Hey Larry!” I said looking up from my key board, the man was averaged height with short grey and white hair, and he wore a standard Campus Security uniform and wore a small salt and pepper beard.
“Just checking in…” he said staring at the computers for a moment before saying: “What’s the big scoop today?”
“Mm!” Exclaimed Angie, “We found a journal in the ceiling!”
“Journal?” Larry said, his voice dropped to a more serious tone. Of course nothing was thought of it at the time, and we proceeded to tell him about our “Scoop of the century.”
“Yeah!” Continued Angie, “We haven’t read it yet, there’s a lock on the cover but it’s dated from the 90’s. We’re thinking about running a time capsule spread.” Angie exclaimed in excitement, Larry’s face stayed the same. Stoic, one would almost say shocked.
“Yeah I don’t know about that guys, I mean what about privacy and all that? I mean the 90s weren’t that long ago, and the owner hid that for a reason…” Larry looked uncomfortable.
“Or they left it her, for us,” said Chico who was just walking into the room.
“It all depends on the context, of the journal tool. We might be able to track down the owner and ask them about their time at the college.” I said, and with that the evening was over. The next few days revolved around opening that journal, we also began to see Larry more and more all the while suspecting that he had the same interest in the book that we did. Finally the day came, we were all at Emily’s house to finally open that book, Angie, Chico, Paul, Jenelle, myself and of course Emily.
It didn’t take long to get the book open, Emily was a crafter and had just about every tool imaginable that could pick that lock. What we found, we couldn’t believe. The book wasn’t a journal at all, well at least not in the conventional sense. The book was filled with detailed accounts of SC4 student disappearances over the years, over fifteen students over the past few decades, including a couple we recognized. The book gave no signature of author, only ending with a cryptic: “Who’s next?” There was something else about the fifteen students: They were all journalists.
We decided not to tell anyone about the book after all we had no proof, and we weren’t going to give up a story like this that easy. None of us were comfortable with the idea of keeping something like this a secret, but we had a job to do.
It turns out the book was right each of the names we found: Erick Fredendall, Liz Whittemore, Brenden Buffa, all disappeared into the recesses of the Administration’s books. Was the Administration really involved? And if so why? The book was giving more questions than answers.
We had been working at the paper late that night, like usual. We were true journalists, over worked and under paid, Burning both ends of the candle for one lousy credit. Everything had been going fine that night, business as usual… until we opened that e-mail. It was nothing, or at least it should have been nothing. It was just spam, we told ourselves. It’s just the result of some creep. But no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t shake the shiver from our spines.
The picture was of us. Us from last week more specifically. Taken from outside the window, it was just us working. Nothing actually sinister about it, but we couldn’t help but feel unnerved. It was the caption that was the worst: “Hard at Work?”
The room was dark, a rank smell came through my nostrils, my head pounded and I opened up my eyes to see a dark basement lit by a dim ceiling lamp. Gagged and hanging upside down frightened tears began to swell in my eyes. My ears assaulted by the sounds of muffled cries, looking around the room I saw the other editors, hanging in the same manner as I was… Angie, Jenelle and Chico lay lifeless. And then another sound came from the stairs across the room… An all too familiar whistle. Slowly Larry came into focus.
“Ah, I’m sorry guys. If it makes you feel any better this wasn’t my idea, it’s uh, well it’s the guys up top. They’re not too comfortable with you guys running around and writing whatever you want. You know what they say, the pen is mightier than the sword. Well they’re out to prove that wrong.” Larry raised a blunt pipe in his hand. Black.
DISCLAIMER: All actions of this story, while they are based on real people are fictional and do NOT reflect the ESG staff’s opinions of any SC4 faculty.