Horror Stories (from My Life)

The Tale of The Falling Underwear

It was a dark, stormy night. No, really. Our story takes place during Winter Storm Juno (annoyingly and widely dubbed “Snowpocalypse 2k15”).

A young girl raced to class. She had mistakenly chosen to take a 6:30pm lecture that semester, not knowing that afternoon classes are the absolute worst and the true monsters of our story. She was a freshman then. The girl had longish dark hair and was as pale as snow, not because she was a pixie gothic porcelain-skinned girl, but because it was snowing and the freezing cold flakes kept landing on her face. She worried about frostbite as she thought of her favorite topic, death. She was dark like that.

The maiden exited her residence, ye old Keeney Estate, a true horror castle of puke, parties, and poo on elevators.

She was wearing skinny jeans and a heavy-duty black sweater, which was dark like her soul, and grim like the eyes of the most vampiric and beautiful boy she had ever seen. The boy she was hoping to see that night. He was her “cool guy from a movie” crush, that person you see in the same place all the time, but never have an excuse to talk to. She always saw him before her 6:30 and that night the stormy vibes made her feel like something big was about to happen. It was.

As she walked, she felt a bulge at the bottom of her pants, near her ankles. The girl ignored it, kept walking, and glanced at the scariest, most horrifying building on campus: The Ratty. She got chills thinking that she had to eat dinner there in a few hours. The bulge tightened. She shook her leg.

Suddenly, he was there. Her crush. He looked at her, smiled for the first time ever, and as she shook her leg in nervousness, he witnessed the girl’s underwear fall out of her pant leg on to the street. They locked eyes. Horror swept across his face. The girl smiled, picked up her PINK underwear, which stood out against the VERY WHITE snow, and ran to class. Talk about a panty-dropper.

She didn’t stay to see if he watched as she waddled away like a penguin (she was from Texas and could not walk in snow). She did not know if he saw as she fell onto the ground a few moments later.

She never saw him again.

A Google Drive Nightmare

Panic. Not at the disco. Renée Wolfe felt actual, legitimate panic. A crippling fright coursed through her body. She felt like she was being watched. Like someone would find out what she did. She never meant to do such a horrible thing. She didn’t know what she was doing! That’s what she’d say. She felt dreadful! It was going to be fine, she kept telling herself. She convinced herself that there was nothing more she could do.

She was a monster.

She hadn’t meant to delete her class’s entire Google drive, consequently deleting every student’s outlines and study guides for the upcoming midterm. She had just uploaded the wrong file to the folder, and thought that by pressing “delete” she would be able to delete only her own wrong files. She didn’t know she would delete the whole thing!

She had e-mailed her TA explaining the situation. She only hoped Katerina would understand.

She paced back and forth in the Haunted Hall of Perkins. Suddenly, the ding of a new e-mail. But it wasn’t addressed to Renée; it was addressed to the whole class.

            “Dear Students: I have removed the “edit option” [on Google Drive] because the folder mysteriously disappeared yesterday (maybe someone deleted it and was unaware that deletion would be total kaput!). We are still missing three outlines. Please use the following link to access the files.”

CRn0PkbUkAAxnTa
The actual e-mail.

Renée with an accent and two Es sighed. She had never been so embarrassed. She quickly used the new link to upload her documents. She transferred the documents into two folders. The wrong folders. Now, with the editing option completely gone, Renée couldn’t get rid of the documents AND everyone could see whose they were!!

At least she didn’t upload her nudes. That would’ve been slightly more horrifying.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *