Chapter 2: The Joke Becomes a Nightmare

2

I was still puzzling over it when the chatter in the room dropped to a whisper as Mrs. Jenkins’s heels clicked down the hallway—everyone knew that sound meant business. Mrs. Jenkins strode in and started roll call.

My name is near the top, so I was called right away.

A few names later, she called out, "Derek. Derek. Derek." Three times—no answer.

Skipping even Mrs. Jenkins’s class? Derek was really pushing it.

Annoying as he was, I couldn’t just let him get in trouble.

On the fourth call, I pinched my throat and called out, "Here!"

Mrs. Jenkins paused, cocked her head, and stared at me through her gold-rimmed glasses, her eyes flicking my way.

The whole room went dead silent. Sweat poured down my face. Someone in the back snickered. I could feel my ears burning. One wrong move, and I’d be on her blacklist for the rest of the semester. Every eye was on me, and I could practically feel the tension radiating off the back row. Mrs. Jenkins's lips pressed into a thin line, and I could almost hear the gears turning behind those glasses—calculating whether to call me out or just move on. My fingers drummed nervously on the desk, leaving little damp spots on the wood.

Luckily, Mrs. Jenkins let it slide and kept going down the list.

I let out a shaky breath. That was way too close.

Right then, my phone buzzed violently.

It was another message from that stranger:

[Thanks for answering for me, but don’t do it again.]

Seriously? He was still at it. Did he really find this funny?

'Dude, who is this? Stop messing around.'

[I’m Derek,] came the reply, almost instantly.

[Derek? You’re skipping Mrs. Jenkins’s class? I almost got caught covering for you! Where the hell are you? Get over here!]

[I was in the pot before. Now I’m in your stomach.]

Derek was really pushing my buttons.

Still joking at a time like this?

I was about to fire back when suddenly, a sharp pain twisted through my stomach, like something was tearing me apart from the inside.

The pain came so fast it stole my breath. I gasped, my vision tunneling. My hands shook so bad I nearly dropped my phone. Every eye in the room felt glued to me. It felt like someone had taken a serrated knife and was twisting it through my guts. I doubled over, clutching my abdomen, my vision blurring for a split second. A clammy sweat broke out on my forehead as my heart hammered in my chest, each thump echoing the ache in my belly.

I shot my hand up. "Mrs. Jenkins, my stomach really hurts—I need to go to the bathroom!"

She glared, about to scold me, but when she saw my pale face and sweat-soaked shirt, she waved me off.

I bolted for the bathroom.

After a long bout of vomiting and diarrhea, I finally felt a bit better.

I braced myself on trembling legs, about to stand up—

—and froze. Mixed in with the filth was a small, severed human finger.

On the finger was a tattoo: "DK"—just like Derek’s initials.

I staggered back, slamming into the stall door. My stomach heaved again, but nothing came up. Was I losing my mind? My breath hitched, bile rising in my throat all over again. My mind raced, telling me it was impossible, that I was hallucinating. But the finger was unmistakable, pale and bloated, the "DK" inked in dark blue right below the knuckle. The room seemed to spin around me as the fluorescent lights flickered overhead. I clamped a shaking hand over my mouth, trying not to scream.