Hollow Hills University is only a fifteen-minute bike ride from Morecroft Manor. Taking the forest path lets me avoid the town at the cost of being twice as long.

  There are all kinds of rumors about the forests of Hollow Hills, but especially those adjacent to the university.Whispers about people disappearing, old cemeteries being re-discovered, mysterious caves full of either treasures or bodies.The bored in Hollow Hills crazy new legends to solve to pass the time.

  People don’t stare at me the way they used to when I was a kid, riding with a stuffed animal strapped to my back, but it’s still more than I’d like. It’s hard to be invisible when you live in Morecroft Manor. Or maybe it’s the demon hanging around as my constant companion.

  At least I’m not the only one on campus that rides a bike.There’s a surprising contingent of undergrads who live off campus and bike to class. It’s one of the few ways that I fit in.Nearly twenty-one and I don’t have a driver’s license.It turns out that demons aren’t good at driver’s education.Being mostly unkillable and lacking impulse control makes it a challenge.By default they’re not interested in human mortality or using the brake, or how important those two things are.

  I emerge from the other side of the woods and take in Hollow Hills University.Maybe it had once been a beautiful institution, but now it looks like the before picture on one of those renovation shows.Large brick buildings dominate the campus, however nearly all of them are covered in brown ivy leaves that might once have been a flush green, giving the campus an air of age and importance.The ivy looks like flaking skin, leaving the buildings abandoned and unwanted.

  I park my bike on the row between the Administration building and the Social Sciences building just in time for a class to let out from the latter.A group of freshmen bolt from the building, many of whom with trails of bloody tears dripping down their faces.

  There must be a summer session of Screamers 151. Mythology of the First Atlantic Cults is a required first-year course in some programs, and every year it leads to the highest number of mysterious disappearances, dropouts, and breakdowns. I’ve successfully talked my way out of it two years in a row.

  If you don’t know what you’re getting into by reading about the rituals and practices of coastal Colonials who liked a little human sacrifice in their religion, you deserve what you get, in my opinion. But hey, some frat boys like to resurrect two hundred year old rituals for their social media accounts, and it usually ends more homicidal than viral.

  I slow my walk to a full stop, letting the diaspora of bloody freshmen scatter before I continue on. It’s been at least a year since my last visit to the Administration building, and I’m not looking forward to today. Hollow Hills requires students to check in with a guidance counselor before every fall semester begins, and I’ve been putting mine off since the spring.

  “Theo!”

  I freeze in place. I’m not used to people using my actual name in public. I get a lot of “Hey, you!” the occasional, “Foul beast of the Abyss, get thee behind me!” and the normal “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming into this town,” but very few actually know my name.

  Isaac Roberts, the closest thing I have to a friend at school, rolls out of the Administration building lugging something on a dolly that looks like a prehistoric coffin. Or maybe a really boring sarcophagus? Pale white with dark red hair, Isaac and I were in the same classes half of our freshmen year, the outcast kids that no one else wanted to talk to. It made perfect sense for us to pair up every time there was a group project.

  Even still, Isaac is one of the most normal people I’ve ever met.

  Y’know, minus the sarcophagus.

  “What’s…” I gesture at his parcel.

  “Oh, this? It’s a prop for the fall play. I think they’re doing The Secret Garden.”

  I scratch the back of my head.“Is there a sarcophagus in that?”

  Isaac looks at my blankly, then shrugs.

  “I remember reading that when I was a kid.It took place in an English manor, didn’t it?I don’t think they had a sarcophagus.”

  “They’re probably doing some artistic interpretation,” Isaac says. “ Remember the chupacabra they added to Rent last year?”

  I had forgotten about that, honestly.By design.“Weird.”

  “Either way, I’ve got to get this over to the drama building.What are you doing here?”

  I gesture towards the building.“I need to meet with the guidance counselor about my class schedule.”

  Isaac nods, making a face.“I did mine in April.Lucky, too. I heard there’s a new guy.”

  A new guy? No one said anything about a new guidance counselor. Miss Agatha had been the only counselor as long as I’ve been at HHU, and she hated me with a passion, but at least I knew her. She always got this flare in her nostrils right before she would throw a book at me, and she never yelled for very long before a coughing fit struck her.Having to meet someone else?Not knowing what they’re like, or when you’re supposed to duck, and when to avoid eye contact?

  Maybe I should reconsider.

  “What do you think?” I whisper, only then remembering that Wrath isn’t there. Why didn’t I bring him along? To me, Wrath is a seven-foot tall demon. To the rest of the world? He’s a small tiger shaped stuffed animal. Everyone always stares at me with pity and a bit of apprehension. I should be used to it by now, but I don’t think I ever will be.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  By the time I realize I’m probably supposed to respond to Isaac, he’s already started hauling away his sarcophagus down the path towards the Derleth Drama Center, a behemoth of a building that always seems to be half shrouded in shadows.

  If I go home without going to appointment, I won’t have any classes for the fall semester.The guidance appointment is the only way to finish registering, and I’m far enough in my degree now that it doesn’t make much sense to quit.

  Besides, what else would I do?

  I trudge inside the administration building and head for the guidance office. On the first floor, there’s a girl slowly walking into the wall, then backing up two steps, and repeating the process. She hits the wall five times before I reach the stairs, and I hurry up them so I don’t have to keep watching. Summer is normally so quiet, but it seems like this year is more active than ever.

  The guidance office is a cramped little closet of a room. There’s a secretary at the front behind a massive desk that needlessly takes up most of the space. On either side of the desk is a tiny passageway into a narrow maze of cubicles, most of which are completely empty. For a school with only one guidance counselor, it’s an awful lot of space, but it’s also made to feel as small as possible.

  “I’m here to go over my fall schedule,” I say, passing along my student ID.There was a glitch when my photo was being taken, so my picture is actually more like a photo negative.I heard it happened to dozens of kids.The secretary barely gives it a second glance.

  “He’ll be with you shortly,” she says, then goes back to slowly pecking at keys on her laptop.

  There’s not enough room to sit anywhere, even if there was a chair, so I stand as far to one side as I can to stay out of the way. Not that it would make any difference. The office appears to be empty except for the two of us. It’s nearly ten minutes later when she doesn’t even look up as she says, “Head to the back. On the right. He’s waiting for you.” She’s still pecking away at what I can only assume is the next great American novel.

  I do what she says, and while none of the cubicle walls are higher than my chest, it’s hard to see where I’m going. The path keeps opening and closing, seemingly at random. At one point, I’m pretty sure I take four right turns in a row, and yet somehow I end up three rows away from where I first started. Miss Agatha always had an open space near the front as her office, and everyone said it was so that people outside could hear it when she yelled at you.

  Eventually, though, I make it to what must be the far side of the guidance office, and find that there are actual offices located along the exterior walls. One of them has a lamp going, even as the fluorescent lights above the cubicle nation flicker ominously.

  “Please take your time” a mournful voice allows.“I have nothing better to do.”Instead of sounding sarcastic, it actually sounds sincere.As I approach, I see the man sitting across from me at a scarred, knobby desk that has a distinct left lean to it.His hair is thin, combed over from one ear to the other, though it does nothing to disguise the bald expanse across the top of his head.

  He looks tiny, like if he stood up out of his seat he wouldn’t be any taller than the back of it.

  “You can call me Mister Woe,” the man says, his words coming out in a jowly monotone, devoid of even a hint of pleasure or joy. “Please sit down, Mr. Morecroft.”

  I start to sit on instinct, but the greeting catches me off guard.Was he expecting someone else?“I think you have the wrong person.That’s not my name.”

  The man doesn’t look up, but he heaves a heavy, long sigh that seems to take all the energy from him. His dour, droopy face matches a voice that is just as melancholy.

  “My name’s Theo. Theo King.”

  The man opens the file on his desk. “Theo Morecroft,” he repeats glumly, yet as though we’re saying the same thing.“I know who you are.”

  “That’s not my last name.” I am tired of this argument, to be quite honest. It’s a hassle more than anything. Like people think because I’m still a college student I don’t know my real name, or like my parents lied to me my whole life. If I was going to believe anything about me, it wouldn’t come from the Hollow Hills community. They’re all so weird.

  “Theo Morecroft who lives at Morecroft Manor in the township of Hollow Hills, founded by the Morecroft family.”The man lifts a finger and points, but it takes him nearly an age to complete the motion.I’m not sure if he’s even pointing in the right direction.Maybe?“This is you.There is a photo of you in your file. You are a junior and you’re here to schedule your next semester of coursework.”

  “Okay, so I live…” But it seems like no matter what I say, Mr. Woe isn’t interested in hearing it.Already he’s started moving on, flipping through my file.An actual file, not something stored on a computer.Was the records office really that far behind?

  He’s reading through my file, page by page, and it doesn’t look like he’s a fast reader. I try to lean forward, to see what’s so interesting about me, but as soon as I do, I see his eyes raise to look into mine, and somehow his depressed malaise turns to contempt in a flash.

  I hurriedly sit back, tuck my hands under my legs, and wait.

  “I suppose this major makes sense for Sir,” he says, heaving another sigh.“You probably don’t find it very challenging.”

  “I just don’t think that most people would understand it.Usually I tell them I’m majoring in Accounting.Something boring.”

  Mr. Woe actually looks like he majored in Accounting. He doesn’t say anything. I wonder if I’ve offended him.

  “You have been avoiding Mythology of the First Atlantic Cults.That’s a freshman level course,” he admonishes, though it’s just as monotone as everything else.

  “Miss Agatha said it wasn’t a required course for my program.”

  “Sir probably likes that,” Mr. Woe said blandly. The guidance counselor seems as likely to stick a fork into an electric socket as sign off on my class list for next semester.

  “You’ll need to take Catatonic Schizophrenia and the Art of Non-Euclidean Mathematics.Have you considered a Religion elective?”

  “It was either Beyoncé and the Role of Necromancy in Pop Music or The Politics of Candle Wax in Papal Conclaves. I went with Beyoncé.”

  He scrawls something down in my file. I’m pretty sure he’s writing in cursive, which I don’t even remember anymore. From upside down, his writing looks almost like calligraphy.

  “Don’t you need to check if there’s availability or something?Miss Agatha always used the computer for that.”

  He looks up, and his eyes are the most unremarkable gray I’ve ever seen.My eyes want to just slide right past him.“They will make room for Sir.”

  “What is with the ‘Sir’ stuff? Can’t you call me Theo?”

  “As Mr. Morecroft wishes.”

  A half hour later, I finally have a full course load, and no idea how the new guidance counselor feels about me. He still looks ready to walk off of a high roof somewhere, so it’s good that the administration building is only two stories. He could get hurt, but he probably won’t die.

  I’ve managed to avoid Screamers 151 for another semester. That alone was worth the sigh of relief. I wasn’t sure how people made it through the entire semester like that. The bloody tears, the loud noises, the rushing around afterwards. None of that is very appealing.

  So when I finally bike myself home, feeling accomplished in a way I don’t get very often, I pull up short in the driveway. “What are you doing here?” I ask, as panic rushes through my chest.

  The man in the cardigan stands on my front porch, holding a pitchfork that wet with either rust or blood. “Welcome home,” Doctor Malphas says.