Chapter 1: The Exam That Killed

During our last practice exam senior year, our homeroom teacher—the one proctoring—died right in front of us, and the way it happened was beyond anything you'd believe:

It was one of those mornings that seemed totally normal at first. You could practically taste the anxiety—No. 2 pencils tapping on desks, the old ceiling fan whirring overhead, sneakers squeaking on the tile as everyone shifted around. Everyone was on edge. But that feeling of normalcy? It shattered in an instant.

The test looked normal—then the page went blank. A new prompt appeared:

Please evaluate your classmate, Autumn Reed. (20 points)

I'm Autumn Reed.

It's our last practice exam of senior year.

A digital countdown glowed red above the whiteboard—34 days.

Just 34 days until the SAT.

Red banners hung on either side of the display—One more point can leap you past a thousand.

The banners were the kind of motivational stuff the school always put up. But now? They felt almost like a joke. As if the universe was laughing at us. The numbers on the countdown clock ticked down with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

Our homeroom teacher, Mr. Fletcher, stood at the lectern. As he handed out the test papers, he gave his usual speech: “Don’t underestimate any exam. Every test could change your life. Make sure you read the questions carefully, and answer them as best you can.”

He always said something like that before a big test, his voice carrying enough authority to make us actually stop and listen, if only for a second. This time, though, his words seemed to echo a little too long in the hush of the classroom.

None of us were really listening to his usual speech. All we wanted was for the test to end, so we could get back to cramming. Just get this over with already.

As soon as he finished handing out the papers, the clock hit nine.

“Now, begin!”

The word cracked through the room like a starter pistol. Pens clicked, notebooks rustled, and a hush fell over everything. You could feel the tension, thick enough to choke on.

I picked up my pen, ready to write my name at the top.

But before my pen even touched the page, I heard Mr. Fletcher let out a series of ragged groans.

That sound yanked my attention up. I looked—and saw Mr. Fletcher’s body swelling, like he was being pumped full of air, growing bigger and bigger, as if something inside him was clawing its way out.

It was the kind of sight that makes your brain freeze up, refusing to believe what you’re seeing. His face twisted, eyes bulging. For a split second, I wondered if this was some sick prank. But there was no laughter, no punchline—just terror, cold and sharp, rising in my chest.

“Mr. Fletcher, you—”

Before I could finish, his body stretched until it couldn't take anymore, and then—bang—he exploded.

Bright red blood, shards of bone, shredded organs—splattered onto my face, my desk, my hands, and my test paper.

The smell of blood—sharp, metallic—hit me hard. I blinked, frozen, feeling warm droplets slide down my cheek. My hands shook, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard the soft thud of something wet landing on my shoes.

For a moment, the room was dead silent. Then the room erupted—people screamed and bolted for the door.

The screams weren’t just loud—they were raw, desperate, the kind that scrape your throat and make your ears ring. Desks scraped across the floor, chairs toppled, and someone knocked over a water bottle that rolled across the tile toward the front of the room. Funny what you notice in a crisis.

The front door was a nightmare of blood and gore, so we all instinctively ran for the back door.

No way I was getting near that. It was a wall of horror, blocking any hope of escape from the front. People shoved past each other, panic making us forget every drill we'd ever practiced.

But I’d barely taken a few steps when Marcus Whitaker—the last-row kid closest to the back door—grabbed the handle and shouted, panicked and furious:

“Damn it, the door won’t open!”

His voice cracked, echoing off the cinderblock walls. Marcus was the kind of guy who never lost his cool. Until now.

Veins bulged along his forearms; he was practically tearing the handle off.

He yanked and twisted, slamming his shoulder into the door, but it didn’t budge. The sound of his struggle only made the rest of us more frantic.

Other classmates wanted to help, but just then, a cold voice came over the PA speaker:

[During the exam, leaving your seat without permission is prohibited. All students must return to their seats and continue the exam within one minute.]

No warmth, no urgency—just cold, robotic authority. The voice sliced through the chaos like a knife.

I looked up. The voice was coming from the speaker in the upper-right corner of the room.

The little red light on the speaker blinked, like it was watching us. For a second, I thought maybe this was some sick prank over the intercom, but the fear in the room was too real.

Emotionless, but chillingly certain.

“Are you serious right now? Who the hell can keep taking the test in a situation like this?!”

Someone—maybe Jasmine, who always sat near the window—shouted, her voice high and shaking. The absurdity of it all made everything feel even scarier.

“Don’t just yank the door—try breaking a window!”

Someone was already hurling a chair at the window, but it bounced back like the glass was made of steel. The sound rang out—sharp, hopeless.

“Did anyone call the police?!”

“There’s no signal at all!”

The school was strict about no phones in class, but let’s be real—we all had them, as long as the teachers didn’t catch us.

We were pros at this. We’d gotten good at hiding them, slipping them into hoodies or under textbooks. Now, every single one of us was fumbling for our phones, hands slick with sweat.

Hearing that, I pulled out my phone too, and sure enough, there was no signal.

No bars, just "No Service" glaring back at me. I tried texting my mom anyway, but the message just hung there, unsent. My fingers slipped, almost dropping the phone.

“Hey, maybe we should just go back to our seats and keep taking the test.”

My voice was drowned out by the banging and crashing as everyone tried to break out.

No one wanted to listen, not with panic clawing at their throats. Was I crazy for even suggesting it? My words disappeared under the sound of metal scraping and glass rattling.

The speaker blared again:

[20 seconds remaining. All students must return to their seats and continue the exam.]

The sealed doors and windows, the dead phone signals, our teacher exploding…

By now, everyone knew—this was all wrong. We stumbled back to our seats, numb.

The room felt colder, like the AC had been cranked up, but I knew it was just fear settling into our bones. We moved in a daze, glancing over our shoulders, afraid of what might happen next.

Except Marcus Whitaker.

He was still stubbornly trying to force the door open.

Marcus was never one to back down. His knuckles were white, sweat dripping down his face. He looked like a man possessed, desperate for any way out.

Above the whiteboard, the digital display counting down to the SAT began a ten-second countdown.

The numbers glowed a harsh, angry red. It was the kind of countdown you see in movies, the kind that always ends badly.

“Marcus! Get back to your seat!”

Our voices overlapped, frantic. Someone even threw a pencil in his direction, trying to get his attention.

[8—7—6—]

The beeping of the timer filled the air, each number slamming into my chest like a hammer. I could hear my own heartbeat, loud and wild.

“Marcus!”

We all shouted his name at the top of our lungs, but he ignored us, dead set on fighting that bizarre door.

His jaw was clenched, eyes wild. For a second, I thought he might actually break it down, but deep down, I knew it was hopeless.

[3—2—1—]

Come on, Marcus. Please.

As the countdown neared zero, my heart was in my throat.

I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for something—anything—awful.

Then, just like I feared, it happened:

Marcus died.

Out of nowhere, a huge, gleaming ruler sliced him clean in half.

The sound it made was something I’ll never forget—a sickening, wet snap, followed by a thud. Blood sprayed across the floor, painting a red line from ceiling to tile. The room went dead silent, every breath caught in our throats.

[Students who do not follow exam rules will be punished.]

Cold. Final. The words echoed in the silence.

I couldn’t help but retch.

The taste of vomit mixed with the metallic tang of blood on my lips. Tears blurred my vision, but I couldn’t look away.

I wasn’t alone. The others... Some students slumped over their desks, shaking. Others covered their faces, muffling sobs and dry heaves. We were all falling apart. The air was thick with the smell of blood and fear.

Screams, cries, and desperate pleas filled the classroom.

It sounded like chaos—raw, animal panic. Someone prayed under their breath, someone else just kept repeating, "No, no, no..." over and over.

But the merciless voice came from the speaker again: [During the exam, please remain quiet.]

The command was so chilling, so absolute, that it froze us in place. Even the sobs faded. We all pressed our hands over our mouths, terrified.

We all looked at each other, wide-eyed, as if daring anyone to break the silence. The only sound was the soft whimpering from the back row.

But in the back row, someone couldn’t hold back their sobs.

Because Marcus’s bisected corpse was still lying there. For the students in the back, it was a scene even more horrifying than hell.

The blood had pooled under his desk, a dark, spreading stain. The sight of it made my skin crawl. I wanted to close my eyes, but I was too afraid to move.

I didn’t dare look back, didn’t even dare move my gaze. I just stared at the test paper on my desk, but couldn’t focus—Mr. Fletcher’s blood and flesh were still on it.

My hands shook, nearly ripping the paper. Every breath felt like it might be my last, and the world seemed to shrink down to the tiny, bloodstained rectangle in front of me.

[Now, the exam rules will be announced:]

The words buzzed in the air, sharp and unyielding. It felt like the world had stopped spinning, waiting for the next decree.

Once the class quieted down, the speaker continued:

[This exam lasts 120 minutes, with 4 questions in total. Each question has 20 minutes for answering, and 10 minutes for discussion before each one.]

[No talking during the answering period.]

[No leaving your seat without permission during the exam.]

[Anyone caught cheating will be disqualified immediately.]

[All students must strictly follow the exam rules and answer carefully.]

[Now, the exam begins.]

No talking. No moving. No cheating. It felt like prison. The cold certainty of the voice left no room for argument. It was as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for us to obey.