**Chapter 3: Pop Quiz, You Die**
719 Words
There are a few things in life that make every teenager break out in cold sweat:
* That moment the teacher says, “Pass your test forward.”
* Someone calling your name during attendance when you thought you dropped the class.
* And apparently, **being chased by the disembodied voice of your own insecurity**.
We bolted.
Because obviously, when a haunted house starts whispering your dark thoughts back at you in surround sound, you *do not* stick around for the group therapy circle.
The hallway stretched longer than it should. Our shoes squeaked on the floor like terrified mice at a roller rink. The lockers rattled. Something behind the metal doors was trying to get out.
“Split up?” Nate wheezed between breaths.
Amber glanced at him like he’d suggested we try l*****g the walls.
“Yeah, no. Classic mistake. What are we, amateurs?”
Zoe skidded to a stop in front of a door. “In here.”
We shoved through it like a clown car of anxiety.
It was... a classroom.
Not any classroom. **My** old fifth grade classroom.
Complete with the same scratchy alphabet border above the chalkboard and a jar of pencils labeled *“Sharpen Your Mind!”* (as if anyone had ever willingly sharpened anything in here except their ability to fake answers).
The desks were kid-sized. The chairs creaked when we sat. The windows showed nothing but thick gray fog, like someone had Photoshop-erased the outside world.
And then—*ding*. That bell again. Like a countdown.
“Don’t sit down,” Riley whispered. “It’s a trap.”
Too late. The chairs locked around our legs with a loud *click*.
I let out a very dignified scream. Amber slapped a hand over my mouth.
The chalkboard lit up with glowing green text:
> **Pop Quiz: Answer Honestly**
> *One wrong answer and you’re expelled… permanently.*
“Okay, you know what? I *miss* the cupcake,” I muttered.
A sheet of paper appeared on each desk. Blank.
Then words bled onto mine, like ink spilled from inside my brain:
> **Q1: What are you most afraid of?**
Underneath it, my hand started moving.
Not *me* moving it. It was like my own traitorous hand was filling out the test.
I tried to stop it, but it kept writing:
> *Not being enough.
> Disappointing everyone.
> Turning into someone forgettable.*
My stomach twisted.
“Uh,” Max said, panicking. “Mine says ‘Clowns.’ But, like, specifically my dentist who dressed up as one. That’s... that’s not fair.”
The lights flickered. The board changed again.
> **Q2: What lie do you tell the most?**
I didn’t want to look. I *really* didn’t want to know what my brain thought was appropriate for a cursed house truth quiz.
But there it was.
> *“I’m fine.”*
The chalkboard buzzed like an old TV. And then, slowly, in huge capital letters:
> **ONE OF YOU IS LYING.**
A red light blinked over Nate’s desk.
Everyone turned to him.
“What? What??” he panicked. “I said my biggest fear is being forgotten! Which is true! I post like four times a day just to make sure the algorithm knows I exist!”
The air went still.
His paper burst into flame.
He yelped and knocked it onto the floor, stomping it out. The second it was gone, his chair released him.
Then... the floor opened up underneath him.
Gone. Swallowed like a bad grade.
“NATE!” Amber shouted, running to where he’d been.
There was nothing left. Just scorched linoleum.
“I didn’t even get to finish my quiz,” Max whimpered. “Do I still get partial credit?”
The chalkboard buzzed again.
> **NEXT QUESTION.**
My paper wrote the words before I could stop it:
> **Q3: Who are you, really?**
I looked up. Everyone was frozen, reading their papers.
Zoe’s lips moved silently as she wrote.
Amber was gripping her desk so hard her knuckles went white.
Riley was shaking her head, like she couldn’t accept the answer she’d written.
Max was quietly sobbing into a bag of chips.
I didn’t want to answer.
But my hand didn’t care what I wanted.
It was already writing.
> *I don’t know anymore.*
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- Writer
