WEBVTT
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Hey, my spookies, welcome back to the IDEs of March.
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When the month feels like it's leaning in close, smiling
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politely to your face while it hides a knife behind
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its back. Tonight we start where you're supposed to be safe,
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bright hauls, familiar routines, a world that feels normal. But
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sometimes the lesson plan changes. A shadow slips into the room,
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a whisper turns into a summons, and something old and
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hungry remembers your name like it's been waiting on the
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roll sheet for years. Then comes the promise of a
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new beginning, clean slate, fresh start protection. But the IDEs
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of March love a fresh start because it gives fate
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something soft to grab. Not everything that offers help is
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doing it out of kindness. And some guardians come with
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fire in their veins and a price that you won't like.
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And by the time we reach the end, where out
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in the wild, places where grudges don't die, but they
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do hibernate, where revenge carries old weapons, returns on schedule
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and doesn't care if you've changed. So settle in, get
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those lights low, and if you hear something scratching at
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the door, well just remember sometimes it's not trying to
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get in sometimes it's just trying to let you know
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it's arrived. And be sure to return next Saturday for
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our final installment of the IDEs of March, featuring the
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scariest stories from the weekly Spooky Vault. And every Wednesday
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there's a brand new scary story to enjoy. So make
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sure you're subscribed and let's get this show on the road.
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Academia Demonia by David O. Hanler, August nineteen twenty five.
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He crept along the side of the farmhouse, sticking to
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the shadows as he pushed the shotgun shells into his
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Winchester eighteen ninety seven honeysuckle drifted on the night breeze.
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He pinched his nose, trying to fight the urge to sneeze.
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The man rarely strayed from the grimy comfort of the
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Chicago streets out in the Illinois boondocks. His allergies were
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giving him and the goddamn mosquitoes loved his aftershave more
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than the wars on State Street. He couldn't wait to
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be back home, and it wouldn't be much longer. Just
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eight pulls of the trigger. Once the sneeze passed. The
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man continued his slow stalk to the back porch. Something
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sat sourly in his stomach. Vincenzo Rissoli was paying a
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premium for a job that anyone could do. One nosey accountant,
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his family, and a four man contingent of state police.
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Rissoli could have hired a half dozen zips for what
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he was paying for the shotgun man. The man killed
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exclusively with his Winchester shotgun, so that was the moniker
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he'd been given. Gangsters were terrible at names. Admittedly, he
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liked the simplicity of the title and the anonymity it provided.
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Guys like riz worried too much about their names. They
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wanted people to know who they were. They wanted to
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be feared. But the man knew fear didn't have a name,
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It had a sound. He racked the pump and kicked
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the back door. One of the coppers tried to earn
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his paycheck and capped off two rounds into the broken
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jam the shotgun man. He returned fire, turning the gunfighter's
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face into a part of the decorps. He had perfected
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his craft in the trenches. He kept the trigger depressed
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and worked the pump to slam fire the weapon. In
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less than three seconds, the shotgun w empty and all
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the cops were down. Three were dead, and one was
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catching up. The shotgun man pulled a shell from his
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bandolier and loaded it straight into the smoking chamber. He
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listened to the soothing death rattle of the one he
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caught in the chest. During the war, the Germans had
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claimed shotguns caused unnecessary suffering. Seemed more like a perk
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to him. Feet stomped frantically overhead as the family upstairs
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looked for places to hide. He wondered if they'd split up.
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A witness with a clear description would kill him as
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dead as a cop with a gun could. The accountant
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had brought his wife and two kids to the safe house.
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The shotgun man hated shooting kids. They moved too much.
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Three hours later, the shotgunman stood over the shallow grave
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he'd prepared on the opposite side of the farm. He'd
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moved the eight victims from the farmhouse before setting it ablaze.
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Authorities would find no remains in the ashes, and if
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there were no bodies, then there were no murders. The
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shotgunman struck a match with his thumb and puffed a
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lucky to life between his thin lips. He held the
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match inside the stolen ford. There you are. He grabbed
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the boy's arm and tossed it into the pit with
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the rest of the child. He started the grueling task
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of filling the hole back in. When headlights turned onto
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the gravel road, he watched the three pairs of lights
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jostling on the rough terrain. He dropped the shovel and
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retrieved his shotgun. The motors were too loud to be
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the Oldsmobile thirty seven's the state police used, but any
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guest was an unwelcomed one. At a crime scene. A
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pair of Buicks arrived first, flanking both ends of the
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shotgun man's Model T. He couldn't see the drivers, but
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he knew exactly who they were. When the third car
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pulled in, a parade of flaming elephants would have been
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less conspicuous than Rizzoli's rolls Royce Phantom. The shotgun man
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watched as the goombas unloaded from their cars. A gut
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feeling told the shotgun man he should be shooting aady.
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The Phantom's door swung open and the gangsters stepped out,
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giving a wave to the assassin got him all pally,
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Riz asked, of course you fucking did, Hugh Mok see
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that pit. The shotgun man always comes through. That's why
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he's gotta go. Rizzo whipped the Tommy gun from behind
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the door. The shotgun man never had a chance to move.
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The bullets stitched him up from groin to gullet, sending
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him into a backwards jig until he fell on top
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of the Knight's other victims. Riz had betrayed him, paying
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him off with thirty pieces of lead. He could smell
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his gums cooking against the hot slug buried in his jaw.
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He was losing feeling in his limbs. He struggled to
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wrap his fingers around the walnut grip of the shotgun.
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He wanted that to be the last thing he felt.
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A shovel full of dirt hid him in the face,
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then another. He squeezed the shotgun tight in his dying
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grasp and prayed for revenge. Someone was listening. One hundred
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years later, Michel Iomi and Dia Patel passed the vape
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pen between themselves in a butterscotch scented cloud that seemed
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to hang indefinitely over the picnic table the four cheerleaders
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had commandeered for their free period. Shahi Riley watched E
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and Crow carving into another table on the far side
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of the yard. What is he even doing here, she growled.
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We running short on rusties. Rusties were the people who
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lived south of the town's junkyard. During the Great Depression,
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children from the area would bathe in the creek and
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the water would stain their skin with the rust that
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washed down from the yard. Almost a century later, the
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pejorative was still going strong. Then again, so was the
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poverty school choice law. Dia told her address doesn't matter anymore. Well,
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it shouldn't apply to him. Shahri defended her stance. He's
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always given me the creeps, not the only one. Chelsea
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resolutely pointed to the far end of the school. That
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Perv's been hanging around since I got off the bus.
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What perv? Michelle looked around. I don't see anyone that
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guy right, shit, he was right there, Chelsea shrugged. He's
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been watching us for like an hour. Maybe he finally
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filled his spank bank. You mean that weird guy in
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the hat, Dia asked, You saw him too, Chelsea took
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the vape from her right before I came out. Dia
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said he was hanging by the library. What kind of
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freak wears a trench coat? Dude gave me the serious dick.
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He was right there, though, Chelsea said, you couldn't have
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seen him inside I did. Dia squirmed. What if there's
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like a group of them, like one of those peto
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pizza cults. Don't be stupid, Shari rolled her eyes. This
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town is full of degenerates, like, Hey, where'd Ethan go?
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Don Roberts kept his eyes on the map as he
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navigated halfheartedly to his classroom. He'd grown up wanting to
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be a teacher. After thirty years working in Chicago public schools,
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he just wanted to retire. This was his first year
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at LAHHS. It was a smaller school with less problems,
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but kids were kids everywhere you went, and kids were
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always little shits. His first year teaching, he'd been stabbed
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by a student. His last he'd been turned into a meme.
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Both had cut him deeply. Thankfully, he didn't have a
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class scheduled until second period, so he'd be able to
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get in a nip of jamison before the little bastards
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rolled in if he ever found the damned classroom. Roberts
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jumped at a shadow on the wall. The black shade
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of the long coat and the hipster cap were distinctive
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on the mint green paint. His eyes traced the sketched
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form back to an adjoining hall. The teacher took careful
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steps so that he could get a good jump out
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of the truant student. He paused at the corner and
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tried to wipe off the shit eating grin. Hey kid,
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he shouted as he swung into the corridor. What the heck,
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where'd you go? Kid? No one was there. No footsteps
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had retreated across the speckled flooring. Yet the closest place
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to hide were the bathrooms at the far end. Windows
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lined one side of the hall, and Roberts glanced uncomfortably
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at his squat shadow directly opposite them. Despite the August
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sunlight spilling in, he found himself shivering. Robert's beat a
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quick path to the restroom. Okay, kid, time to get
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back to class. No one answered. Roberts walked into the
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men's room and heard the rattle of feet pulling up
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onto a seat. The teacher pushed the door. It swung inward,
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bumping against the teen's knee. The kid took look out
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one earbud and held his hand out expectantly. Hugh here
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to help me wipe, he asked, pinch it off. Roberts
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nodded to the exit. You're missing class. I'm not missing
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a goddamn thing, the kid responded, Kid Ethan. The teen
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corrected him. Okay, Ethan, you need to get back to
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class now, or what Ethan snickered? You'll expel me from
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the place I don't want to be for not being
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here a bit early in the year to be this defeatist. Bruh,
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I got forty six days until I turn eighteen. Ethan
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put his earbud back in. Hugh and the rest of
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the faculty can ignore me that long. Then I'll get
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out of your hair. All four you got left, That'll
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be enough. Roberts grabbed the teen's arm. Let's go see Ms. Wardlow.
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He's back, Kevin Spacey. He shouldered into Roberts to knock
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him away. You can't touch me. This ain't nineteen eighty four.
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Then act your age and walk yourself. Why don't you
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suck these balls of academia pops Roberts snapped a finger
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at the door. Now the lights flickered, drawing the teacher's
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attention long enough for Ethan to run for the exit.
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The bell rang, swallowing the sound of the door banging
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into the wall. By the time Roberts got there, the
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delinquent had melded into the swell of students escaping first period.
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I should have stayed in the city, Roberts grumped. Chelsea
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watched out the third floor window of her ap history class.
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The first day of school normally had lots of vacant
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desks as the teens begrudgingly broke from their summer routines. However,
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by fourth period, Chelsea was sure something else was going on.
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Despite thirty six desks, only nineteen students occupied the classroom.
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Two of the missing had just been with her in
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trig She wasn't the only one that noticed. No one,
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including the teacher, seemed particularly interested in the curriculum. A
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sudden bang drew attention to the back of the room,
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where Darcy Smith sat. Darcy stared at the book she
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dropped with confusion, but didn't make a move to pick
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it up. Chelsea turned to the window again and gasped
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at the silhouette of a man outside. Dia screamed. Darcy
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was convulsing at her desk. Foam flew from her mouth
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and her eyes rolled back before she fell to the floor.
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Most of the students shrank away from the violent seizure,
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clinging to the walls while pulling out their phones. The
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teacher slid to the girl's side. I'll get the nurse,
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Chelsea said, chancing one last glance around for the specter
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in the window before darting out of the class. U
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sh it was only the wind, your safe weekly Spooky
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will be right back. Nurse McBride was occupied with her
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sixth case of I don't feel good for the day.
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Hunter Prescott made a show of holding his stomach while groaning.
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McBride poured him a shot of pepto, but when she
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turned around Hunter was missing. The door was still closed
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and she hadn't heard it open. She shrugged, downing the
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pink syrup herself. The first week was always full of
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whiners looking to go home sick. There were at least
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three waiting outside the office for their chance to try.
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A warm, wet droplet exploded on McBride's hand. She looked
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down at the strange, foamy green yellow spatter yuck. She
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raised her eyes to the ceiling. Assuming it had come
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from a second story bathroom, she expected a spreading stain
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of sewage saturating the overhead tiles. Nothing prepared her for
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what she found. Instead. Ethan sat in the janitor's closet.
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He'd been changing hiding spots every period since his run
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in with that new teacher. There were enough problems at
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home he needed to come to school just enough to
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keep the principal from calling the cops. Last time that happened,
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he walked into a door and spent a week in
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the hospital. Once he turned eighteen, he'd drop out and
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haul ass to Canada. Ethan leaned against the wall and
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thought about where he'd hide out next. A hiss emanated
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from the mip sync he sat on. A sulfurous scent
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wafted up from the drain. He fanned the smell away.